In the arms of trees

I feel nothing 
like a hamster on my wheel 
waiting to go
anywhere
than here.
 
Trample through
the bramble and
I do not see you 
only a reflection—
isolation 
always settling in
June July August
like clockwork 
orange,
my fellow droog. 
 
Moving forward
maybe this year’s 
my finale
if not now
then when else
when agony is the wind
to my sail 
 
No eulogy for fallen trees 
sentinels retired into sleep 
recoiling from aether
after time spent in soil 
and it begs the questions 
 
where are my roots 
and
will they write of me