I see a tree standing solo in a silent sky,
Before a storm, of wind and hale.
Branches, bold, bereft and bare.
And yet, in each season,
A burst of green, a blaze of gold,
Then winter ashes.

Like trees cut down, we bleed in silence.
Hearts aching in agony and ecstasy.
Our stories stack like cordword.
Our bodies dry and age.
In time, often in a community’s hearth,
We burn.
Our ashes seed a new reality.
A fertile sea and earth.