Another poem for Ayla.

The Big Tree and The Flood, or
Creation

“Like the moon,” he said
Eight years later. We were drinking
Beer and watching our little one.
Here we are; you were

Her first son. And me,
The first daughter - who
Survived the flood in ‘93 -

Under the moon
I am -
The pieces in your sea.

I remember that first night under
The Big Tree, down the Rocheport
Road. Where are we going? I didn’t
Know then that we would be in this
Room, heel to heel -

You heal,
As I heal,
So she’s healed.

I feel -
We were never strangers.
Am I like the moon?

I saw you in
The Crescent. That next afternoon -

Your hands
Held the space where 
She would
Be. 

We created life - you
And me.

Who knew then the genesis
Would begin the night with that tree.
With the bar to our backs, exchanging 

Hops on our tongues pinned
Against our -

Oak, there you are. You are 

Life. You are -
Beyond the canon. You are -
The cuneiform engraved on
The stone tablet of my heart. You are -
Real. 

I’ve never believed in atheists. 
I always believed in you. Who are they who don’t
Believe in anything?

They must not see the trees.

They didn’t believe that Noah
Would carry them to shore 
And they don’t understand
The wind is just a feeling,
But, we know -
It exists.

I teach them -

Life doesn’t begin until you
Know the space between
The breath and

You embody the water.
You are the water.
You are the trees.

My pathway to Jerusalem.

My breath.
My limbs. My Bur
Oak.
My Big Tree.