I paused after lifting, reclining on the steps of my deck.

I looked up where a tall tree’s leaves waved in the air.

I saw the May-Tree try

to paint the sky,

its leaves like tendrils,

or finger trails

dragged through butter.

I felt the May-Tree try

to scrape the sky,

to leave an imprint up there;

to soak the blue

in its water-colory green.

Why does it try? Drive. I hail the May-Tree’s

drive to be seen.

I felt a kinship with the tree for its drive to be seen,

and remembered.