I see a tree
Standing solo
In a silent sky,
Up above plains,
On mountain high,
But one of many,
Before a storm
About to die.

Branches bold, bereft and bare,
Sap seeks soils shelter there,
When winds blow
From cold, and fire below.

An yet, in each season,
As an ayat, a sign,
A bud of brown,
A burst of green,
A blaze of gold,
Then winters ashes.

Autumn sadness, instead of summer gladness.

Like trees cut down,
Or blown over by such storms
We bleed in silence.

Our bodies dry and age,
Our stories stack like cord wood.
Words which fill files, halls and clouds,
As ephemeral ink, tattooed on printed pages,
Electronic screens, or fading skin.

In time
Often in a community’s hearth,
We burn.
Our ashes seed a new reality,
A fertile sea and earth,
Until phoenix like,
As a rose arises,