Preserve Open

I choose the circle not the square.

I want the bare bones of belonging
not the drapery
which holds dust in all its folds
made of all my shed skin and dirt
and yours too

How many more years
will I witness winter trees
fuzzing with leaf?
their dark branching lines
against England’s grey skies.
These black bones support
the muscles of my mind’s eye

I cannot know.
So I cultivate open
and then
I preserve open