westerly

image from pixabay

I wanted you 

to fall here

on my parched roots like a rain.

Instead you blew through all my branches,

stripped me bare and brought the cold

like I was nothing, just a plaything, 

just the scenery for your games, 

just one more tree of million forests,

just another cracking cry

in the monotony of ice.

I will stand silent while you touch me –

not the withness that I wanted, but

the withness you choose to give –

and I’ll say thank you

for the freezing,

for the bowing,

for the near death of your touch. Maybe

one day your voice on my branches will

breathe warmth and hope and sun. I’ll grieve 

the lost and vibrant leaves I flew like welcome flags for you, 

I'll draw my lifesap to my core and keep my buds tucked under bark,

but I will lean into this wind

in case your tearing, stripping touch

one day turns love.