I see the tree on the hill and think of her, perhaps because
she’s finally put down roots she could not have put down before, a tree that
overlooks the world she used to live, and which she felt compelled to photograph,
an old splintered pier stretching out into the river, a grass lawn locked in by
a ragged stone wall, this cliff that climbs, a tree that clings to its stones,
her posted pictures documenting her life in stages, though I see her still as that
tree, struggling to survive, roots gripping stone as they dig down for
something permanent to cling to, a tree just on the brink of it all, its leaves
turning, not yet really to fall, as she clings to the last vestige of summer, a
tree whose limbs will so go bare, she relying on those roots she plants to keep
her whole though the expected frost to come, a tree that grows here, not in
Brooklyn,, on these cliffs where she used to live.
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