HE DECLARES THE HAWTHORN TO BE DEAD
He stands by all he has said, he stands
by the root of the tree. The leaves have turned brown, and many
have already fallen to the ground in August.
The trunk is decayed and the bark peels off in flakes,
he stands in the posterity of the red blossoming, back when
the poor man’s light fizzled in the June nights. The stubborn
hawthorn gleamed brighter than the stars, clearer
than the planes that attempt to bind the world together
with their daily descents through the branches. Hawthorn
has always been a nodal point in the universe,
and he stands by all he has seen, he stands by the root of the tree.
The flower buds have become black wounds, no red berries
will trace the blood trail of history in the snow. He recalls
that this tree was originally a lateral branch
which survived the storm when the main trunk had to succumb.
Now he has come to the point
where the axe cleaves past and future.
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