Ears gone deaf to words,
to expository apologies,
that would surely be the best for both of us.
Speech spent, touch tarnished,
scent the only sense of fidelity
carrying me to the magic spruce of childhood.
Whipped up by the prevailing westerlies, 
the loyal scent of spruce in fickle times.
We will wait together,
the spruce and I,
and the random flies that bite
in anticipation of the rain.