Between the westering light
and my still frame
Trees stand naked in the chill
and taste the breeze
All the while
the moves the earth teaches
pulse beneath.
Roots murmur,
hungry,
holding fast,
drinking deep.
Brittling wind-torn branches
Relieved, peel away
and are welcomed back to their beginnings.
The crackle of sap
a gracious ancient witness
to a hundred summers.
On fingertips ridged with fire and liquid gold,
emerald buds blister,
and pattern the future,
amongst irrepressible song.