:::poetry
the dead tree twists though alive
it writhes, the sky absent blue
and green, mocking what used to be
where the brush grows thick

to root around. you'll find
placed, the ground; it's dead leaves
memories of how it used to be, though
it lingers on the earth
potentiality of dirt

or home, the monarch may call on you
a palace to the vagrant floating, humming,
the lanternfly invades, still—
being and becoming.

Dead tree,
you are quite alive to me;
don't go.
:::