Massive and unmoved by seasons,
she looks over a carpet of seeds.
Chestnuts fall like Mexican sweets
during La Posadas. They’re strewn
around her stone bench
while a squirrel threads and tacks
across the tenure of her trunk;
its tail, a stole, adds grey breaths.
Autumn breaks open and runs on
in waves, while she has to be
perfectly anchored in that body;
her jigsaw shape locking the garden
together, where leaves reengage
to feather the hollow of her waist.