Poetry Heartspill # 16

My tree

gazing upward
I grasp a fistful
of leaves to examine

Some weathered
some cracked
dark green
light green

but a few dead

in confusion
I wander the tree
looking

more. dead. leaves.

not enough for
a pedestrian to
notice

but for me
that loves the tree
these few
dead
leaves shock me
to the core

I start to
feverishly
dig around the trunk

"the roots
the roots"

I exclaim

I know where the answer
will begin to show itself

I tire quickly
keep digging

my hands ache
scratched
bleeding
torn

this process
takes longer then
imagined

but I know I cannot tarry
cannot stop

i must get to the roots!

the blonde one