I know what I am

Chloroplasts churn

until they don’t, and

the dessicate thing

can only clasp the bark

so long.

Wind separates the stem;

leaf falls to earth atop

a dozen more.

A hundred will follow

tomorrow

on every block

in every forest

and will again next year

from the same dimple on

that branch

where no one sees.

Kneel.

Lift it.

Nothing more

beautiful and vital

will ever touch your palm.