Nothing remains in this little town
that knew me as a young girl
except the stumps on our farm—
elms, Douglas firs, and maples
cut and sold down the Snohomish River.

When I was a God-struck little kid
on a hard chair in Sunday school
I could see tree leaves shimmering
through the windows,
unheavened,
and wondered,  
is God in here, or out there?

I sleep with my window open now.
I’m okay vanishing with the trees.