Heavy-kneed and
somewhere new,
face to the moss,
I mutter.
O, make the most
of me.
Shake my trunk
and bathe
in what falls.
What does this
dehydrated dew
mean?
O clatter, clamber,
climb up my want,
and answer me.
Make the most
of my rains,
O quiet roar.
If roots and boughs
begin to leak, let them.
Lap at what’s left.