Trees

I'm no less
hemming now
than I was in my 17s, in my 29s,
reels of me gathering in ruinous hue,
the scent of you
and corpses before.
I'd like to have coffee,
make peace,
sit on the earth,
spoon feed you gluten
and quietly,
lever a door open,
pour those wrongs about us as twigs,
make us face them,
help you grow,
roots denied
soil
or water
but you're too proud,
as am I,
soft hearted,
and I am not an hourglass
nor a mirror,
nor your baine,
not the grand swollen womb that gave you
gooey to the land
and I can't make a helicopter of my heart,
set it to flight
so I won't come to that tree
and make peace for I know I
could devour all this feeling,
fillets making me full,
and I could live in that time richly
without care for thorns and shoots beyond.