alone here you lay
waiting for arbor day
whisked here by the improvident winds,
ensconced in the midst of gray desolation,
gelid dust in all directions -
you, an inward, dormant, hidden, synclastic beauty.
no trace of moisture or nourishment on the horizon,
the sun does not shine upon this land;
nothing else lives here.
but when matter aligns,
and the gloom falters briefly,
should you catch the ray of light as it breaks through,
your time will come -
and the wind,
the same one which brought you here,
the capricious will of the universe,
will catch you in her stochastic tempest
and carry you away once again,
this time, perhaps, to the subterranean oasis
where beauty goes to manifest
and desire comes to flourish,
and love can be received -
and after an odyssey of despondency,
the conditions for your growth will be ripe,
and your explosion into a palatial tree
with kaleidoscopic limbs and leaves
reaching toward infinity
alive, alluring, lustful, and free
will come to pass - inevitably.