Cassie Pruyn

Giant broccoli floret, yellow trapped in green, fabric filled with holes, living lace, ruffly riot, wind whipping up chunks of you in disparate directions, New England tree—you’re here when I’m not. When I was elsewhere, you grew buds on your bare branches. Your leaves shivered out like mold, wrinkly and compressed. You stretched them skyward and you sent them inward, leaves fluttering into shady nooks, and now you fill up the edge of this field and yellow infuses itself in your felt in order to get to be here, as you, in your corner. When will I get to live in your corner, when will the wind take me up and jostle me quiet?