life is a tree-
it grows,
grows,
grows,
but then it falls
or breaks
or splinters into a million pieces
those million pieces are salvageable,
sometimes.
when they aren’t they rot,
rot,
rot
a rock hits the tree
and the bark falls away,
leaving the tree bare and unprotected
the weather and the world fight to pull it down
the tree stands tall,
sometimes.
when it doesn’t it will rot,
rot,
rot
broken and battered-
splintered

There are roses.
A sniff of that—
turns the trees into sharp thorns.
Sit still.
Secured. Guarded.

Then there is a Tree,
meticulously crafted,
big-footing from the deepest deep—
a deep-bone skeleton.

Math of the matter
couldn’t be closer,
nor farther—yet it is,
as surely as cumulative math,
with countless truths in store,
unfound until the equation fits.
It can appear with precision,
or stay hidden from sight—
under the sun, or the moon, alike.

Sharpest sharp cuts: linear.
Deepest deep, yet curves—
smoothest golden spirals.

The solid full-stop dot
in Ma spaces
springs sweetest, absolutely high—
the complete panache showcase
over enduring time.

A sniff of it stirs the water—
boundless,
no sea, no ocean, no river,
just flow,
forever.
It bumps into paradise above,
roots stretching,
never ceasing.
Deep down, it rocks the pearls,
melts the clouds,
rains soft on the glass—
which breaks
into pieces of a star.

Breaks open wide—yet no angle.
Deep down, it never fractures.
Every line, on every lane,
curves inward
to its digital bedrock:
non-linear, vibrating numbers.

Day in, day out—
no end at the end.
A topological fold
opens, rewraps.

There is a tree:
overhead and underground.
Keep an open eye.

A great-great granddaughter
Is tracing our family tree.
She thinks she’s got my hair.
Sunday giggles pointing kindred,
Mapping stories.
Her mother remembers you fondly,
and insists she has your wit.

Delusional,

I think.

(At least she got that loud laugh from me)

daydreaming again:
She is just like me

No she ain't got your wit.
or your  charming silver tongue.

Nope.

Those talents must be lying

in some branches

of some other future kid’s

family tree.

Like a Yew tree
in its fifth century.
Like a June Beetle
in its fifth month,
burying its eggs in the soil.
I pay little heed
I give no value
to the boasts of kings.

Inside my mind, a tree decays,
Its branches broken, lost in haze.
Dark shadows cling to every limb,
A silent scream, a fading hymn.

Roots once deep now barely hold,
A story of despair untold.
I feel myself slowly fade,
A shadow of the strength I made.

No light breaks through this endless night,
Just emptiness and fading sight.
The tree is dying, lost in gloom,
A silent witness to my doom.

I wanted to look to you like I was dancing
But the bugs on my bark weren't moving enough
I kept reaching skyward and praying for wind
     Never comes to a call, does it?
You could trace each fissure on my surface--why don'chya?--
     Find stories and runnels for flowing sap
Saw me off at the hip, maybe. See what jokes my rings have to tell

I'm tired of waiting for wind; I want to dance (I think?)

I wanted to look to you like I was thoughtful
So I sliced off a sheet of cyan and I robbed the sky
You called me "thief." ******' mean
     Always reaching for silver, aren't we?
Try to touch irises, press pupils. I've never been further than now
     Stories all end, so I'm told. But this one? Still going
Hacked apart, trying to show you my pieces. Chunks. Rough mince

So I stole again to pay the sky back. Ex nihilo, nihil fit
I can pour from empty, because I'm magic, baby!

I wanted to want to see you in Springtime
But we can't scrape Winter off our faces
     Sling me a flat stone that I can send spinning
Slapping across the water's surface
Did I hit the opposite bank? You could stitch together separate days
     if you only had the sinew and a proper needle
Blown apart by wind and explosive expecting. Chunks. Rough mince

I'm tired of waiting for wind. I'm tired of wanting to dance (I think?)
Not magic--well--not the kind that isn't bone and blood and skin
That's the sort of magic that doesn't exist.

Everlasting light,
Shining on the green Titans
As their browns falls to earth.

From here, four thousand feet down
The Rocky Mountain Range
As winter subsides and spring begins
Purples and whites among the forest, up there, from here
My shaded porch by a hundred years old ash
I see where I once was, high above.

From here, as the tick, toc, tick, toc
Snuck through the air of time
As the children lost their wonder
The fancy climbing, the hold on tight
Of a tree swing dangled, beckoned
Them. They lost their spark
From here at this distance I see it all stuffed in the dirt of time.

The peach tree next door grew over your fence.
Can you believe it?
It’s big enough now for you to pluck a peach,
No ladder needed.

I think you'd care,
Because this peach tree used to be a sapling—
Barely a foot tall when we first planted it.
We had to be more patient than we'd like to admit,
But now its branches are strong enough
To weather the seasons, carrying all that’s tough,
Cradling birds and catching the songs they sing.

It reminds me of us.
It reminds me of you.
You wanted a peach from that tree,
But it took many years to grow—
Just like we did, with naivety, even so.

You have crow’s feet now.
Time has come, and you have grey hairs somehow.
Small lines drawn gently on your face,
But every wrinkle tells your story—
It’s plainly self-explanatory.
Each one a slow, beautiful mark of time that I’d never erase.

And when I look at you,
I don’t see flaws.
I look at you, and with a soft sigh,
I say:

She was a star back then—
But now she’s the whole **** sky.