I can only imagine you turned into wood one of those silvered, slender trees now quite alone bent by ragged seasons shorn of leaves, and, extraneous branches the fallen, skeletal remains of life’s importunate sundial illegible but, in unquiet earth the marks deeply incised bark skinned away bone pale underneath a sail for a smile reaching from whence to whenever with the ruffled sigh of birds with knots for eyes on your carefully held limbs quietly watching
