Sturdy trees grow awkwardly.
Thin wisps that flip in the
wind, malleable to its will,
stretch too-big hands to
strike the sun in
misplaced rage.
Their dance is jutting
and askew. They have
permanent blood that
stains your hands.
When you crack them in half,
they find a way to
stretch in resentment still,
idle to the earth’s death-wish,
until they quit, and bloom.
