Treehouse

Victoria Peterson-Hilleque

The melted snow brought us much:
high waters for you, for me a new house.

I feel your source from here:
Lake Minnetonka renewed

the way tulip bulbs push
out petals slowly from memory.

I move the sign saying sidewalk closed.
It will not snow today.

The gray accented by green buds
will soon succumb to all green.

Thick yellow tarp stretched under the bridge,
abandoned after last year’s

construction. At night, a raccoon
stares through our kitchen window

unabashed while we make snacks.
She had her babies in the hollow post

on our front porch. We’d like her
to move. The sun bears down

on my back. I feel Dorothy laughing.
I sit by the daffodil patch.

Scrape at the wet leaves matted
at my feet with a stick. You race

along with the speed you need.
I breathe deeply. Let my body

set its own pace. A plane flies
by. A small brown bird chirps.

Steal one daffodil to press in a book.
Perhaps I’ll bury her soon.

I walk against your current
under the freeway, below

the city just far enough to still
smell its need to ingest

me whole, without thought
or desire, the beat of my feet

weave a spell of forgiveness.
I do not care what feasts

on me. I regenerate
from memory.

Victoria Peterson-Hilleque’s poems appeared or are forthcoming in Paper Nautilus, The Montucky Review, Poppy Road Review, and other journals. She’s the Poet-In-Residence at Solomon’s Porch Church in Minneapolis, Minnesota where she also teaches a poetry workshop.

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