I Tried to Squeeze the Tree

Back into its seed
But nothing would fit

Not the white blossoms and their perfume
Not the green leaves or their black shadows
Above the lambs   Below the limbs

Not the bushels of apples
Not the buckets of cider or combs of honey
Not the lip print or the quarter moon
Of Eve's perfect teeth

Not the flame from those twigs
Not the flute carved and drilled
From a branch
Not even the tiny house
Shaped like an ark would fit

John McKernan is now a retired comma herder. He lives – mostly – in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press. His most recent book is a selected poems Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review and many other magazines.