Cutting marks exposed my roots
I shivered into a ball and spilt
Seeds outdrawn by doubt
Regretful branches aching grew
From the furrow of your brow
But I’m not harvesting this year
We combined are no longer new
Young sap-lets taking tentative root
Blinded by indolent suns
We are arcing oak trees, twisted
Entwined, too strong to fade
Into effigies, hollowed alone
