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highlyeccentricIf it were dead,
you'd burn it.
Scatter ash to the winds, to the sea,
silent life buried in a shroud of earth.
If it lived, you'd take
the harvest in a black bowl:
first fruits, sweet and sustaining,
blood and honey for juice.
If there was a storm,
you'd watch it uprooted
from the safety of your window, protected
against the howling it struggles to bear.
There is no shade in summer,
no autumn nut-gathering.
In winter, it waits for death—
but in the spring,
a single bud:
one living,
held breath.
It clings to the world
as you watch.
Published at Strange Horizons
you'd burn it.
Scatter ash to the winds, to the sea,
silent life buried in a shroud of earth.
If it lived, you'd take
the harvest in a black bowl:
first fruits, sweet and sustaining,
blood and honey for juice.
If there was a storm,
you'd watch it uprooted
from the safety of your window, protected
against the howling it struggles to bear.
There is no shade in summer,
no autumn nut-gathering.
In winter, it waits for death—
but in the spring,
a single bud:
one living,
held breath.
It clings to the world
as you watch.
Published at Strange Horizons