The earth is dry. My roots are chafed & their caps withered, no longer squandering a tree’s time seeking increase. The panting air & eager sun desiccate my leafing. Scorched are the green speculations, played out from lifetimes of ring building. All those dead trees within, stiffen against heaven.
My self of cells is anxious for a pause; to fall so those who make me upright, may empty of enthusiasms; fill with lignin; a presence that remembers; an import that assures others pressed against the year to come, Rain will make us shake off these tired things. Give us time to sleep & waste with dream.
And as we die pass the waiting cambium, Spring will come & wake us with great ambition.
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