My first house that
I bought on my own
had a century-old
willow oak in the
backyard, her girth
more than my out-
stretched arms could
hold. Among her roots
nestled tiny treasures:
caches of her acorns
from last fall, mushrooms
suitable for fairy teas,
stray poison ivy for
the unwary, and springtime
daffodils I could enjoy
from my kitchen window.
There were even a couple
of bricks, perhaps remnants
from a bygone patio,
hugged in close. The
daffodils showed me that
a previous owner had
sought to brighten their
dishwashing chores
when warm sunny
days weren’t something
they could yet count on,
but the bricks taught
me even more: belonging
comes with time and
connection, but isn’t
reserved for predictably