Saps run before the weathers -
hordes of sugar in the root -
what little stays - thin and capillary,
above ground, contests
the filigreed fingers of water
with denser sweets.

And thus, unleaved and ****,
what to the eye appears barren,
rude to the dog-eyed sun,
summer nests exposed as frail,
stricken to bone in winter,
stands as a man I once knew -
propped by his own root,
wide as shade and none other.