There you are,
the feathered edge of the cedar,
black and purple
in this bloom of dark water.
Together we hear
the rush of far-off wind,
the trembling leaves,
the gathered rain,
flowing in small canyons
on the bark,
and with each gust I worry
you might slip over my head
that the flow of water might loosen your roots,
and there is nothing to do
but stare at you the way I stare at stars,
and ask the soil to hold you.
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