Don’t make the mistake of sitting dead in the cold ashes of a withered tree.
a wind will blow but the ash will remain
trunk turned gray, leafless with old wounds
in petrified bark. to be seated beneath the
tree is to know what was once held aloft in
green branches. as a sapling it dreamed.
but now there are only exposed roots, brittle
like sea stars, dead deposits of bitter want.
naked in a wind that never stops blowing are
secrets of a lust older than silvered willows.
the tree rattles a story of wishing gone
wasted. finger dipped in ash, a smudge across
your forehead, and still you sit.