Our bodies: broken-necked,
trampled weeds pushing blades
in the back of the countryside.
Our hue, off-note dahlias bouqueted
in an orchestra of daisies and dogwood.
Each sorrow song hangs open—
heavy and hollow.
But these tangled weeds reach
skyward, locked in formation, weaving
together like ivy. Our placement, so intricately
woven around each ancient tree. Each willow
keeping the secrets of centuries,
thirsting for the taste of rain.