You wear the bark,

but the charade

bites, xylem and

phloem corked with

pseudo-sap. Leaves

wilt, dejected

heralds marking

your soul wormwood,

galled by blighted

moral compass, limbs

sold to do evil

where, rooted to

inferior soil,

your destruction

is imminent.

Where Hope Abides


Branches bow to golden glow,

wave as sun sinks far below

horizon, where the darkness hides,

in the place where hope abides.

Open Fingers

Blessings fall from heaven’s storehouse,

light on objects far below;

only hands with open fingers

catch the ones that grace bestows.


Doesn’t this look like an open palm waiting to catch something wonderful?

Branches Baring All

Calligraphic nibs

etch meaning in an empty sky,

fingernails scratching glass,

scribes recording ticks and tocks.

Abacus counting season’s syllables,

limbs leaking language

in a thousand tongues –

branches baring all.