old tree,
the way you sway
with the wind,
you test your roots
and make known your age,
but we do not hear
the grinds or groans
of decay –
no,
these sounds you sigh
are those of aching beauty,
of cruciform desire,
a path laid out
beyond
the time when
leaves no longer dawn you
and in anticipation
of how your saplings grow.
-
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saunterings 