Trä

I was dead,

Trunk unpacked

In wooden slats

Where once rain flowed

Skyward

To faint and trembly leaves.

A spent season.

No Gardener,

She’s built

From rootless memories;

Rooted me

In place and time,

Found a sunned beam

For my home.

I float again,

A being growing

With new purpose,

Flowering underfoot,

Resounding my past.

I think her belle,

For she’s given me back

My treedom