i went back, to boyhood moorings to find where the tug holds rootage
i walked long to stand next to this tree blown by the fall
there is:
no fruit to its branches
no temptation
no edenic fauter
achy, old, desolate and wanting
while winter is coming back, slowly taking everything the years gave
freezing tears and halting hollow hopes.
so, i’ve thrown hands to the skies hoping like this tree
that spring melts frosted fists
that future walk-a-bouts find reckoning
that the tested paradise of our youth blooms, even now
