Silver birch sapling, sang
some other once-was-a-tree,
and to be so useful after
shedding life like so much
sun surrendering to shadow,
planted, all sturdy now,
no roots required, no fruit
anymore, some say
selflessness like this
is the secret–
What use will my
bones be after I’m gone?
The silver birch song
and I long for my
grandfather; they also say
grip grows strong with
age like our ears and our
nose– what knows the
way to this sweet
salvation?
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