Tilted tree, my limbs break for you.
My heart is cut by your metal leaves and my
skin feels rough like your bark.
You may swallow the water out of the nearby
pond. The rain will not come anytime soon.
You might die cold and lonely, but I will come
visit in any season, storm, or shades of grey
in the overcast blown sky...
When you loose you glitter patterned leaves,
I will pick them up for you.
I have an intention to use them...
To meld them into a sculpture.
I will transform into a tree.
Myself was meant to be you.
No medium could be more
grand then an old oak trees' wood.
My skin layers in more burnt umber, jagged,
shingle like shapes. My feet loose form and are
morphing into long and slender snake like roots
which weave through rocks in the healthy soil.
My arms are raise as boughs so birds to land on.
Smaller twigs grow into hefty branches budding with blossoms.
I will smell the sweet scent of flowers.