ALT With your broad veined leaves like violins in late spring the tiny bulbs that distend stems, sexual as any flower, you grow full in the sudden warmth and then suddenly all is calyx and orange cuneiform the petals lay upon the ground like some alphabet to decipher telling me to look up at the light that tunes. And there against your trunk once more I see my grandfather smoking and staring off at a thing distant as if a sailor might as Ursa Minor rises on the far horizon. I touch your scarred bark, and it repeats the names it should not know. I wasn’t here when you first sprouted, nor will be here when last let go samara. But our people will make dusk with our dead, as the falling leaves fiddle on the wind.