Look at this trunk, burnt hollow,
keyholed from side to side.
Yet, in spite of a few dead limbs,
a crown of leaves pushes against
the patient sky. So we might
flourish, in spite of ourselves,
evacuated of fortitude. Paul
said it: in weakness, strength;
in death, life. I don’t know how.
But most days, a long resilience
of xylem and phloem.
Of chlorophyll. Ex nihilo.