Every winter I wake and wait. 

Maybe this year no frost,

Holding my flowers for the right moment.

That they’ll flourish and grow, being courted and caressed by fluttered wings: wasps, beetles, birds, and bees.

To grow into that plump ripe fruit that falls

And feasted upon by my adopted children

letting them carrying motes of my soul

So that my progeny may grown on across our home

Just dreaming that I may be more,

More than just shade in the summer heat.

More than and highway for the

crawling insects whose lifespan are but a blink to me.

More than a pretty shelter in a storm

Fretting that I may be struck by the sky and this Shelter fall.

Not becoming an axe striking down those that trusted my canopy.

More than a pretty carpet of wrinkled gold, crackled brown, and sunset reds falling to be a discarded garment by my roots as I meet the northern winds naked and asleep.

Please let me time it right this year