None of this

Am I brittle bark, twisting
branch reaching skyward to pale winter
wind destined to shatter or
glowing, boiling sap
pouring upward?
Maybe I am
blossoms unfolding, stirring
on the gentle breath
of spring pollen and
fragrance drifting,
calling clouds of monarch
to silent nectar, arisen
from warm earth until, nourished,
peel off this shattered bark, cut
loose in the skies as the dust
of their scales disperses.

Thank you Tom Hart for helping me get unstuck with this one

© 2019 Trisha Traughber text and images

Thank you Stephen M. Tomic