I am the tree no one tends anymore,
branches thinning, sap running slow.
My roots ache in the soil of silence,
drinking nothing but shadows.
Friends once perched like sparrows
on my shoulders—soft wings, warm songs—
but the sky has grown heavy with distance.
Now their voices flicker like burnt-out stars.
Nineteen winters have crept through my bark,
splintering the rings of my growth.
I am tired of my own echo,
tired of reaching out and touching only cold air.
Hands bruise the fruit I offer.
They take without tasting.
My body becomes a hollow orchard,
my mind a frostbitten grove.
I want love—
not the scythe, but the seed.
Not the hands that pluck,
but the hands that plant.
I am tired,
my leaves falling inward.
Yet some small part of me
still waits for spring.
