I think of the white sheet in my hand<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that used to stand, green and upright. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Did it have rotten roots <\/p>\n\n\n\n
that gripped dead soil? Was its trunk<\/p>\n\n\n\n
a hiding spot for brown treasures <\/p>\n\n\n\n
from a squirrel who is now<\/p>\n\n\n\n
without a home? Was it scared<\/p>\n\n\n\n
by the axe cut, did sap run<\/p>\n\n\n\n
sticky, like blood? When it fell, <\/p>\n\n\n\n
did its wooden arteries reach for<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the hole in the earth <\/p>\n\n\n\n
where it once stood?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What about me, heartstrings<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that coil moldy, guarantees that spoil<\/p>\n\n\n\n
me as I still grapple for weeds<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that choke out my air? If I’m chopped<\/p>\n\n\n\n
down and remade like that tree, will I<\/p>\n\n\n\n
be tucked, crimped, new, or thrown<\/p>\n\n\n\n
into a waste bin? Or will my rough<\/p>\n\n\n\n
skin become smooth and thin<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and crease into wings?<\/p>\n\n\n\n