P O E T R Y
Cheryl Hyde Lewis
Witness Were I a tree, my cambial body ringed with drought and plenty, feather-flicked and licked with cloud sweat, I’d want a bloom of lichen at my base, a nodding acquaintance with wind, the violet flight of bird wing shadowed in my hair. Leaves veined like laundered linen, sleeves of clustered fruit, the heft and height of hardwoods proof—every toughened fiber bends, declares a firm intent.