who marked the birch
different in the skin,
and placed it at the spot
and the time to be caught
in the slanted rays of the sun,
at the tired end of day?

who brought me here
like i've been brought before,
unprepared for the gifts presented?

what is in common,
the aging of my open hands
and the leaf less birch
stark white in contrast
to the woods surrounding?

that i, in skin
stretched over bone frame,
am still and bent
and white and waiting,
grasping at the sky as the tree,
that rises beyond me,
showing me the faith of the hand
feeling the wood,
rooted and reaching,
touching the vitals of the earth rising,
ever rising to the underside of god.