If it were dead,
you'd burn it.
Scatter ash to the winds, to the sea,
silent life buried in a shroud of earth.

If it lived, you'd take
the harvest in a black bowl:
first fruits, sweet and sustaining,
blood and honey for juice.

If there was a storm,
you'd watch it uprooted
from the safety of your window, protected
against the howling it struggles to bear.

There is no shade in summer,
no autumn nut-gathering.
In winter, it waits for death—

but in the spring,
a single bud:
one living,
held breath.

It clings to the world
as you watch.