i stand beneath the spiral pine tree canopy

reaching for the bottom branch, and bravely

scrambling to the top

i peek between the needles, and the stars

are like the plastic glow in the dark kind

on my bedroom ceiling (did God put them

there with blue sticky tack, too?)

the hushed calm of the night does not betray

the rapid flapping of the bats or the muted hoots

of a dove,

and the deadened oak to my left clutches at the

sky with crooked black fingers, I can tell

he wants to steal the stars away,


i know

that sticky tack

is tougher than he's bargained for.