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

Obsolete, Obese.

Life bittersweet

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?