Arboreal Poem

a fleeting thought

I thought maybe I’d say your eyes
were the gentle brown of a wooden
    toy train.

Then I imagined
a child
clutching that toy with gnarled
tree root hands; the idea of losing it creates
a lump in his throat like a
mountain of iodine.
Then he moves on, and the toy becomes detritus, a
piece of pressed plywood,
sawdust causing sneezes,
a passing thought with a smile in
old age.

So your palmtree eyes left
to go on some timbrous journey,
but the sierranevada you left me
just will not erode
no matter how much
    I swallow.