It unspools at her feet,
a late night sky, clouds risen,
of ribboned fabric.
Names and titles stitched
line by line, needle-pricked
fingers spilling blood,
infusing the weave,
Your name, caught up in there.
Mine entwined with it,
curving behind and along,
shaped like lovers –
shaping a tree embracing another –
roots and branches wrapping
shoots and leaves that tremble,
touch
fall
Now, give rise again –
to her eyes trace lyric,
her reading fingers, their manic passage –
tracing songs that cannot ever be sung…
Whispering names
that can never come together,
save in some fevered stitching,
sliding
on darkened sheets,
where fingers clutch and beat,
tear and wrap.
Where names and cries wrap
like branches.
like leaves.
like writhing trees,
bending together in the night.
-martin burns
Writer Moe 
Achingly beautiful.
Change is inevitable.
I’m wondering how old is the oldest tree?
The Panda. It’s a fascinating plant. 80,000 years old.
Interesting choice…with trees being such a vivid representation of being alive.
I like the whole metaphor of that plant. How it survives through cooperation. How it’s one monument commune striving against the odds.
Powerful stuff. Trees… I like then as a metaphor too. I’ll think on that.
Still, I suppose it’s a way to pass the time…
Ack. Pando. Spell check hates my art. And voice to text hates my voice.
Great prose! Intense and beautiful.
Thanks, glad you’re enjoying it.