Poetry

The wayfarer, searching 
for the leaf-pains― 
fallen from the lone tree. 
 
Some holy script will 
tell the angst of the sap, 
which would not reach the roots. 
 
A responsible weep, 
will divulge your name to― 
forest bees, waiting for the moon. 
 
I watch the setting sun 
with trepidation. 
Night will bring again, the blasts.