serious work

I will die to become a tree
trade flesh for leaf-green poetry
sweeping shadows from winter sky

or bending low and tossing sun
in patterned dreams for anyone
seeking shelter. Come, crawl or fly

to my branches stream-side, rock-tide
or on the windswept prairie, wide
open to storm and spring-breeze sigh

A nove otto for Jane’s weekly challenge. Thank you and apologies (especially for the rhymy form) to Angie, whose amazing poem inspired the title and second line. I read about this tree-food alternative to burial a while ago, but the idea has recently resurfaced in the news.