in winter, the trees look decrepit, forgotten.
in spring, the trees reawaken to who they are,
and become outwardly beautiful,

…”it never came,” said the oak sleepily in december.
“wait,” said the fir.
“it never came” said the ash drowsily in January.
“wait,” said the pine.
“it never came,” said the poplar through a yawn.
“wait,” said the spruce.
in spring, their laughter tickled the crocuses.
in summer their shade cradled the toadstools.
in fall, they all prepared for a sleep,
to dream through the ling winter,
of the gentle rains of the spring.
in winter they wept as the saplings mourned the cold.


To holler without sound, I’ve been listening
For a while now my love and there is
A story in my head. I cannot tell you
How it goes but it runs the distance
Of all my known fears and beyond.
The waking hours that creep
And strangle my feet. I am not
Going anywhere. I am not falling
Asleep. I am a watchtower
Forgotten, decrepit but I hold
On to the last vestiges of a former
Light. I can still cast some shadows
They make up for the absence
of what it is, I cannot tell you.
I am a watchtower and I will hold
On to the last.

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