Brigitte Goetze

I call the red-robed poppy,
bleeding gloriously
over once desolate
and disturbed places,
sister.

And the tall fir,
guardian and priest,
willing to sacrifice
a limb each winter,
older brother.

An Indian plum I am,
ready to leaf out again—
despite still frosty nights—
my sap pulled up
by the sun’s gentle tap