1008

and I bark like a wounded
tree still bending
sideways in the wind

and I sing like a sunk
rock quivering against
currents low and fast

and I wither like a cracked
bell still kept
shining in a tower

and I sin like a rusted
mooring holding weight
saint like in a chapel

and I’m harvested like new
fruit not yet ready
but aching - just aching