it’s spring, my sapling
but i can’t watch you
stretch your branches
or spread fingers
in the sky. can’t hear
your laughter shake
green in the wind
don’t smell good earth
kicked up at your
little root feet,
petrichor when
you point & tremble
sweet sapling, spring
shows me space you
may have been; another
whole hole full
of emptiness
rather, i plant myself
in a cotyledon curl,
dream of more
yellow birds alight
in dark branches
& on white flashes
of bark, brown eyes
watch me, unblinking
in a yellow wood,
my sapling, spring
is ever on the edge
of my eyelid, my lips
spill voiceless
mouthfuls of converge
converge
converge.
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