Trunk

You thought it was over…
Roots you made
And ground you broke
A twice-corrupted distillation
Chokes the oaky ground:
One part blind darkness
One of hope
And one of fear
by way of despair

And yet the wind whips you awake
Earthquake arise and shake
You laid a trap seven layers deep
For all of the attention
You could ever want to keep—
Yet shows of wonder
you were not designed to make
For from your branches
We were called to eat
and taste and take

Your limbs have years to grow apace
Four seasons more, allow yourself the grace
to court and chase
While you support the crown beneath
the face