That's the mulberry
that last year's early snows bent
so low over the garden
we chose to lop it off for light
burning now in the cast iron belly
of our living room stove its memory
fueling a few nights' warmth from the dark-hearted
rings that if we'd counted we might have known
logged the climate of half or so our years together
before giving up their anniversary ghosts
joule by joule to warm our spirits
smoked out of routine hibernations
by the kindling of the longest night
Nowhere near green
as we used to be
a few broken limbs and skinned up bark
twin trunks still reaching more or less for the stars
forming out of earthly combustions
the substance of our own intangible rings
counting for a moment
ourselves lucky
knowing we're adrift
shifting shapes leaving
to those who number the nights
the afterglow of our heat.