And so, the hanging fruit has always had a seed.
What did we do with it? What shall we?
Never quite silent, the tree, even in peace,
rustles as the breeze bends us.
We know all the green and allow it to envelop our sky,
In the dreams, in the veins of all the leaves,
sits the puzzle piece. Nothing new. Down to the roots.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: growth,history,life,spring