this morning, early
when i walked out to feed the chooks
i looked up into the wintry geometry of the birch trees
of which there is a small copse which i planted
when i first arrived, in honour of my father
(i remember standing on the veranda
and throwing nine sticks into the air
then planting a birch in each spot they had landed)
this morning they offered me a gift
rows of clear pearl drops of rain
and each one reflecting the world around it
so many wortlds
so many stories
"there is no name for what i want to be when i grow up"
