I, golden tree, still, screaming, silent,
Palms stretched, weak branches as
Seconds flicker by, centuries of panic
Catching breath too late. Shock!
I am chanelling Penelope, wishing
I could untangle these leaves but
no. I must wait for someone else’s
sails to knock the wind out of me.
Rusty, I know, but I’m just pleased to be able to use my hands to type!