In moments that are
                                    brief;
I feel footprints in my boots, but only
for a moment (the time equivalent
to when a bud knows its leaf)–

Aside:             I unfurl curled toes,
           threaten to release
           raisined feet to air–

And,
like feet in boots
and this tree’s yet-bloomed
leaves, I too feel loosely cradled.
I think, “It must be she,
the tree, standing attentive.
A column who defies gravity with veins
that move small rivers upwards
and pushes air away to grow
a whisper wider.
She proposes to herself,
once a year,
with a ring that fits
inside the others:
a russian doll set,
a little marriage,
a moment that is
                                brief.

BIO: Ella Ramsay grew up in small town on the East Coast of Canada after moving from another small town in England. Her work is informed by the experience of queerness, the impermanence of home, a curiosity of the mundane, and studies at The University of King’s College. Her summers are spent as a tree planting crewboss in the boreal forest of Northern British Columbia, and the rest of the year she writes from small desks in libraries, coffee shops, and rented rooms across the country.