Pine-needle mystic, where the fuck were you?
The evergreens are dying, one by one.
Once, we spoke of plant cells -- the able glue
That can't connect us, rain-receptors on
A pagan limb. I wrote a sonnet, but
I never let you see it. Rather, I
Collected it and -- crumpled in the rut
Beneath the tree -- it "failed to thrive." The dry
And crumbling juniper that sprouted there
Remains a somewhat insufficient priest
To tend a still-life garden. We're aware
Of litter tossed from fences; it at least
Passed through the tree-line. Its apotheosis
Surpasses yours; it waters my neurosis.
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