looking up at the sky through the branches of a very tall elm tree

What Do They Do With You?

Naked tree stands before me.
What color were its leaves?
Branches say, “Hold me,” to bare sky.

My best friend has lost her breasts,
cancer ravaged them. She will
have new breasts, perky at
sixty-three. Shriveled breasts,
what do they do with you?

Put them in my hands
to cradle.