Once, to ring the base of a tree’s trunkmeant protection; if the tree died,or failed to flourish as hoped for,            then the ring had been somehownot perfect, or the stonesweren’t the right ones; either way,            protection got confusedwith invitation, and what was far,what we’d hoped to keep far, came            close, settled in: not love, nevermind what it felt like, and notregret, which I still can’t believe in —            I’ve tried — and not shame,which I long ago lostsight of, though I remember            waving to it, as it wavedback to me, its slowwave back, for hadn’t the two of us, for            a good while, been pretty muchunstoppable, even if it hurt inside,isn’t that where hurt            belongs, why should yoube different, a question Istill don’t get, to be honest. Say the part            about fear when you’re ready to, if you’reever ready to, you don’t have to,they used to say, with that            flexibility that distinguishesthe second-tier godsfrom the first tier. I couldn’t think,            and then I could think, but as whenthere’s only starshine for a lightto go by, does that count            as thinking: we step away, we canhear them still rattling — dead leaves —though we hear from afar.