The Possible Tree

Swallowing a santol seed, I turned to my grandfather and asked
if I would die. He laughed and said darling, santol does not kill.

It only grows into a tree with branches as thick as these –
he flexed his farmer’s arms for emphasis – sprouting out

of your ears. Now whenever words escape me or a song
bursts into a quiet chorus, a furtive finger finds its way

into both canals, checking for leaves. I wait for the world to grow
still. Long after discovering science and frailty, some of us continue

with the story and find out that every event leads to silence, all music
aspires for silence, the interior of sound is silence, already silence

is within us silent and unseen, there is a silence waiting
in an abandoned house in the field, in the shaking walls of the heart.