When I was a branch

            still spare and spring lithe,

And as yet not limbed hard

            by the tireless gyres

                        of time and wind;

 

I flourished

            in earnest,

Casting fruit to the ground,

            to seed a world–

                        spawned to leafy splendor:

                        One and all enkinned.

 

Now, this thick dark bark

            harkens only a musk of humus.

The scent of decay, a deep rich perfume.

And only flowers of memory persist to bloom.

 

Piles of fine dust are my progeny–

Perhaps a descending litany of ants.

Thus, the heritage of destiny:

This brittle edifice to chance.

 

                                                                                                           

Spring 1991