Who will behold and cultivate this tree
beautiful through wise eyes and hopeful
Maple blood that it seeps painfully and slowly
that’s the only thing that will come out of the womb of defeat
Who will nurture this tree
Morbid and alone it’s cursed by the agony of no sleep.
Diagnosed with “every year is the same thing” sequence
Moon rise after moon rise
it weeps deep frustrations
good enough to write on
not good enough to finish
this tree can see.
Counting the number of rings
carved into trunk
break it to see
the cycles of poison
the dry seasons
the seasons it has tried to become pregnant
with creator dreams
the one conception that almost bud first fruit…
wildfire stole offspring before it was pollen.
It is scorched and severely misjudged
Who will have the the time to redeem this tree
Barren and scared
no shade its ages ungracefully
can’t get away from prematurity
and abortion but live on spontaneity
Captivating and desolate
still growing strangely
being the first to fail
last to sprout
This tree desires labor and bloom
like the forest it rose it.
Who isn’t embarrassed that will sing to me?
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