Found my tree 
in the air between 
ground and sky. 
Charred bark shivers 
from many lightning 
fires, 
body bent low  
like men 
caught between prayer 
and recrimination, 
and the limbs 
that break it 
down, 
that contribute 
nothing, 
that only take 
and take, 
and where is the fruit, 
where is the  
fruit. 

I watch blood 
course up 
the trunk 
dragging milliseconds 
each pulse, 
and it is such 
effort 
to merely 
stand, 
and I touch 
it, 
the trunk, 
and it is 
too much 
to hold,  
and too  
decrepit 
to leave. 
I turn back 
and look across

this present 
age, 
the hopeless 
frontier, 
and I sit 
at the root, 
and thunder lows 
the disappointment 
of expectant 
lineage, 
or maybe echoes 
love’s jubilee 
the next plane 
over,  
or maybe signals 
the emptiness 
behind me, 
the emptiness 
before me, 
it is with 
me, 
it is 
me,  
it is 
my own 
voice,  
I am 
here.