I am all that remains of a tree,
once luxuriant, able to shade the harvesters’ siesta;
but storms shattered each of my branches,
and lightning split my trunk to its depths.

Only these paltry leaf buds are left to crown a trunk
hollow where a heart was;
I have watched my skin burn for kindling; like smoke
      clouds rising from a country fair,
I have witnessed the best parts of me ascending skyward.

Chained now like a slave by roots that suck up
     this earthly bitterness;
I still feel my leaves budding, my sap rising,
and as I await my death I cling to a single consolation.

Each wound is a portrait of a lost branch;
were I not still standing, no one would ever
    narrate my missing selves;
I live now only to mourn what I’ve lost.