When the clouds turn dark, I will braid
the rain into your hair. I will fit
your tears into the wrinkles
of my knuckles and the space between

my fingernail and flesh. I will whisper
you the whistle of warming water.
When the oak begins to rot, you
will be inside, cutting pieces of brown

paper into the size of seeds. I will catch
your scraps on my tongue, swallow
the shape of your fingertips. I want
to grow a tree inside of me and name it

you. Lay your head on me,
listen to my veins sing to you
about blood and salt, sweet
cherry-colored throat drops.

The fox that followed you
to sleep last night hiding underneath
the picnic table in the yard, napping.
His paws cling to your storybook,

the one about barn animals
and the storm, a leaky roof
and the old man who couldn’t stand
the noise. When the wind worms through

the crack between window and sill,
the sound of a hiss will weave itself
through your pillow. You will sink into my chest,
a wishing well that echoes your breath.