Stoic and sturdy and
Destined to everlast.
Sticky sweet insides
Shrouded by emerald spines;
The sun casts a warm glow
My skin doesn’t allow me to feel.

Only the cold fingers of time
Pull on mine.
Each tug an unwitting proposal
I don’t desire to utter yes to.
Still, they persist;
With every ask, a new ring.

I know too much.
The others confide secrets I’ve no wish to know.
When they scream, I scream.
What they smell, I smell.
Dangers. Sicknesses.
Deaths that leave me no more alone.

I don’t feel it.
Not even when something unseen gnaws at me.
But I know it’s there.
I know everything.
Except —
I wonder, what might bite its bones.

Is it, too, left to monologue in the wind?
Does it, too, wonder
What good knowing is
When one could fly instead?
Or does it have wings?
Feathered or made of silk?

Little friend.
Take what you will —
Leave nothing behind.
Bend and bite my bark
And if you must rest,
Buzz upon the others a plea for me.

Take tool to my bindings and worry not.
Moss is meant to catch the weight
Of a hundred years. More.
Think of me — enough to bring me home
And string me with stars
Close enough to burn.