Analemma & gnomon

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