In the arms of trees

I feel nothing 
like a hamster on my wheel 
waiting to go
than here.
Trample through
the bramble and
I do not see you 
only a reflection—
always settling in
June July August
like clockwork 
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 
will they write of me