Deep in our roots far from light, something stirs:
desires to stop drinking. Nutrient’s slow
surge consumes trunk, our course bark, even spurs
willowed branches to rise, spread wide, and now
withered leaves, charred black with wrinkled deadness,
seem to shudder, flex, grow green from within,
veins alive and sensing sun, limitless
air, letting wind caress each leaf’s brief skin,
lift it in waving prayer and graceful dance.
At night, high leaves face stars. Our lean, long arms
open to moonlight and all it brings. Chance
becomes a sacred thing. Fearless of harm
from disease or storms, we stand still, aware
of where and who we are, Great Breather’s care.
Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2010
