Unto You.

I don’t want to leave these lines.

I fear outside of them, I don’t really exist.

This naked January tree.

This body. Rooted to this earth,

exposed to these seasons,

changing with these winds.

It hurts. You feel so tattered,

so detached from

real-time.

Until a quiet passerby joins

at your apse, shares a moment.

Sighs unto you.