I rub and lick and its soft purr
stretching out into evening
the usual cry

–who else would name a tree
after a star no one sees–I call

sniffing for that murmur
not yet to the surface: a grain
still circling the dark–every night

one ring more starting over
lights up inside, its claws
opening till every leaf
and my eyes–that star

knows I'm cold, the tre
won't move and my eyes
piled as branches still tremble

see the sky suddenly narrow
under these broken footsteps
under my fingers
under the stones.