I once had occasion 
to stand inside a tree 
that had been hollowed
by lightning or disease,
a tight fit, cramped,
a feeling both at once
of being in a womb and a coffin
so far removed from myself
in that framed space
that the only sound  
was the pulse of the ocean.

I held there waiting
for something to happen —
some finger of light
to guide me back
into my life.

When finally it appeared,
I squeezed back out 
to my waiting self:
the day dragged on,
night came and fell.