Fir

Your pen draws the light of a
Childlike likeness.
Endowed with the hectares of grass
That the spring touched only
When you watered her.
Unlike the concept of the actions you took.
The yesterday has taken you from me
With the perfect sense only known to you and me.
My skin crawls with the bites from many
That live in the nests beneath my home.
I am not only scraps, I am the discards of your touch.
Sanctuary of the healed has me wanting what they found
With the moment of the shattered urge to end me.
May the water of your devoutness be the
Last taste of my needs.
Has he found the other?
Or has he found the other in me.
Buried as the dead they come to live in the trees amongst my firs.
First planted as seeds to be raised as birch wood.
They masquerade as the pale tree bark
I only know by sight
Not even the scent can fool me now.