Deciduous
Of this tree stump, sagging
where a fine craft once emerged
like ideas
or leaves that cling to a boot,
when wet enough to be
hospitable,
still give us nothing.
From these roots that now feed none,
I once emerged
by chance
bright green and turned to the sun
hungry in youthful greed
until I browned
on the seasoned path to Fall.
Of once high limbs, an absence
standing tall in gales,
empty air
where no swings hang, no laughter
or youth now climb. Memory
and limbs
twist the same when aging.
Of a core, where mites now chew
old fears of being core-less
now feeding swarms;
a thousand tunnels
of foreign hunger winding
drilling,
and I am a feast, asking the air in.
Of this stump, an ending
by force of dissolution, turns to its seed
perplexed,
by slow death and perforation.
Elegant, she responds, unchanging
a whisper:
"Great things are given the quality of stars-
in death,
still,
they draw in.
In death,
still-
they
carry out."