No one can
tend to your land.
No one can
lift Autumn leaves
up to where you
stand, with tears that
float. Like a message
encrusted as grief’s hidden
answer, you are this
tree, with stretching limbs.
You are in bliss,
only when you are weeping.
You are missed,
when you are revealing
a world that went gray.
In these hands,
I have caught what you
have dropped. With
all that has been stopped,
with you, it cannot ever be
enough. You will fall,
with your heaviness that I
cannot ever catch.
Open your eyes
when you touch debris.
Keep your scars held underneath,
suffocating upon newborn warmth.
A lesson taken through shelter,
when I recreate you,
when I revive you
at spring’s kind cruelty.
Modern Romanticism 