between pages

if you were to send

all the young birch

into the fray

as firewood,

I would be found

somewhere

between the sky

and the grave,

tired ashes settling

with a sigh

around my toes

which would be busy

twisting into root,

desperate

for the deep earth

to moisten me,

voided warranty,

an antidote from

such an early end.

pick me last

in the school team

please

see the forest

but not this tree.

Filed under: Poetry