Cold in this soil
and longing for your embrace
growing old
as time takes what's left in state
then
the trees
are brown
and we all sleep

heart filled with love
despairing descending
will they take
both hands will wrest away
flesh
and bone
and time
will free us

exploding with leaves
the wind is the painter's brush
finding lines
and filling the heart with love
down
the trunk
the roots
will feed