Since childhood, one of my favorite trees,
the honey locust with its long, sharp  

amber thorns. One stood in our backyard
at the crest of the hill we loved to run down.  

In recurring dreams, someone chased me
with a knife. I’d take flight at the driveway’s turn,  

land in that locust—our variety thornless. 
I remember its long, leathery seedpods,  

hanging clusters of heady-scented flowers
that bloomed around Mother’s Day,  

how their tiny oval leaves sprouted yellow-
green in spring, then darkened, until in fall  

they streamed golden-yellow like fringe.