Saps run before the weathers –
hordes of sugar in the root –
what little stays – thin and capillary,
above ground, contests
the filigreed fingers of water
with denser sweets.
And thus, unleaved and nude,
what to the eye appears barren,
rude to the dog-eyed sun,
summer nests exposed as frail,
stricken to bone and squirrel run,
stands as a man I once knew –
propped by his own root,
wide as shade and none other.
Image: Fabrice Villard on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 