Today
a gray
offshoot of a white
branch in a brash brown
tree with an unnerving yellow
tinge told me that it had too much colour

Little
I said, and the
little tendril frowned
Too much colour it said:
when my sister across the road
is so withered and beat and crumbling
wishes do I make some of mine do lean into her

Smiled
I did. What will
you do when your life
begins to bleed? Worthy
sacrifice said the Wisp; Wool for a
shoot’s sense, laughing, doubting, said I