Rooted II (Poetry)

They’re close
too close
and never see
the real me —
a tree’s a tree
nothing more
than bark and leaves
ironic that
the blooded sap
of generations
rings
like idle chat.

I take their breath
in through my
skin —
stranger-lover
kith n’ kin
absorb the lesson
withering
in winter-death.

Naked
on the skyline
stand
begging light
to warm me through
with hope
the grey-eyed man
will come
show pity then
and cut me down
my purpose over —
done.

Meanwhile
the birds
are solace for
the lack of
feeling
in my limbs
they sing
tradition’s
wordless hymns
and soil me
black
and white.

I cradle them
protect
provide
they satisfy
a feral need
a growing instinct
dark inside
to nurture —
feel the
swelling bud
so-coveting
free-flight.

But I am anchored
in the earth
drawing
sustenance —
the ache
of who I was
a fading
dream
less likely as
the decades
pass
my moaning
to the
dumb-cut grass
long-over.

And though the
dirt around
me’s poor —
less fertile
than my mind
would wish
my ration
measures
boneyard-bliss
as certain
melacholy-
fingered moon
taps my root
and chills
my core
life can’t
wound me
death has
got me
covered

and snow’s
become
a perfect
friend
and lover.