Whether I grow old, betray my dreams, become a ghost

or die in flames
like Gram,

On the sill
the blown-out candle

I have been allowed to go on living in this
room. I am not asked to explain my presence
anywhere.

Do you still know these early leaves, trans-
lucent, shining, spreading on their branches
like green flames?

In the unshaded hill
where you kill
every day I have climbed