How like a flotilla of stalled parachutes is the canopy

of this lone eucalypt, caught and agitated by a morning squall.
Laden cumulus barge across the window,

a flow field breaking brightly open, only to close again. 
Looks like the weather’s heading south, might reach you

as you’re moving out, extracting yours from ours. On your knees,
taping dusty boxes. That ripping sound, the ragged final tear.

You’ll seal the cracks, only to open them again.
I know the contour of your back, the way you bite the tape,

the small and careful hands that smooth it down,
the way you’ll squat to take the weight of things

you valued once, your merciless, thinning hair.
When I look up, the squall has passed, the tree returned to itself.

The canopy is nothing but a living mass of leaves; shroud lines
simply branches. Only the idea of the parachute remains: the terrifying

leap, the jolt that breaks the fall, the slow, exhilarating descent.