Each morning on the common Martha stops
beneath the conifers, paws on dry needles,
the part of our daily stroll where
she allows me to kiss her stilled German
head. A long way from boar hunts and pheasant
shoots she was bred for in 1840s Saxony.
The spruce are emigrants too. The copse
planted to temper winds on the newly
cleared wood. Now they stand
apart, transplants like all souls turned
toward one another, while we pass
through, a softer wind.