The rough touch of bark rasps calloused palms,
splits skin, lets the moss-spores in,
mingling life in my palms as I ascend
bending branches, shifting gaps in the canopy,
sparking entropy in a shower of not-yet dead leaves
aborted in my progress.
Belated childhood buds in comatose limbs
revived in reconnection to their purpose
decided by millennia of death now damned.
Preserved in tins and glass we find fruits
twisted to our ends from their own process:
countless lives denied in our dominion.
I discover sibling seeds swinging on tenuous tendons
aching to emancipate their way to new life.
We sway together, riding vibrating waves
of consequence aligning lives on a global scale:
relations of reactions overreaching boundaries of being,
existential intricacies insinuating my internment
coming before I can breach the canopy and breathe:
Open, exposed to the forces of wind and sun.