in nature there is a process called inosculation /  in which a tree/   whose branches have been

cut,

           nerves /             exposed and open to the vulnerable world /

              may find themselves in luck; teetering structures valiantly

                                                             embraced / by the steady neighbouring colossus / of another, bound

                  not by a sense of duty /           simply an acknowledgment

of the familiar / in distress / they will merge, tissue folding into rough tissue,

                                                                           structures aligning into the imperfect perfected column /

 

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that is the beauty of nature / nutrients and jealousy and sap-flesh

                                                                          / hold no bearing on the other. perhaps it could be said

      that the unusual / the strange,

                                                         crooked hybrids / are more familiar in the arms

            of God’s creations /            than we ever would be

 

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if we were to be reborn as trees / our souls weaving

                                                                   into the vast tapestry / of indigo and vermillion  /

         before crashing back to the green, matted in our coats of dirt and moss / maybe then

                                                     we would be okay / but right now i am an ant’s length /

                                   away from extinction, from falling

                                                                                           to the hard ground / and you /

                           are the one who cut me at the base/ just to watch me fall