Poems

Barbara Fisher: Two Poems

A Sort of Tree House I wake each morning to windows full of trees, to their weather news and seasonal information— freckled light on leafage, the gloss of rain, or the stripped boughs of winter and a bigger sky. I still marvel that a second-floor flat can be a sort of tree house, with all its views and variations mirrored inside, so that even the rooms seem forested.   Yet it’s a modest plantation outside. Against a solid background of brush box, beloved street tree of many a Sydney suburb, a few gleditsias offer their deciduous delights. Gled what? I…

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