My silence absolute
-ly deafens me. Your storms
imperially rage, whipping you
around in madness; I know,
dimly. But my leafy stillness
stirs only with a quiet love
and aches for peace. Afterwards,
a child might see my rings
and count stiff summer winds long past,
fossils of forgotten passion. Or
my roots might rise from Earth
in profane proof of weakness.
Who knows? Our times are broken
all apart. By then you'll be
only a pleasant memory, to
sweeten Autumn for an ailing tree.
august 2017
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