I am ancient, but afraid. I invade, but stay in place. Who am I?
. . . . . .
The frost-free season is for suckers. Extending my tired arms, I’ve embraced all-frozen soils. I’m wearier, pock-marked, and
inter-digitated over uncounted centuries
epochal climates and
I grow best in the past tense. I once
burst my pink pods on humid, clement winds float my strange sons and daughters to any
distant receptive friend. Perhaps she too
chromatids too close to let go.
impotence. and instead, a slow yawn through the subterranean, periscoping to the sun. This strange incest
engendering myself, changes accumulated but few
My fate is not
Expanse testifies my resiliency. Centurial changes enclose my heights and my
branches, but, with tenacity,