Needles cramp my hand, writing your sap out of my blood.
Me, born in screaming winter depths; you, planted come spring.
Roots garroting themselves in a too-small plot of soil,
Until trunk wounds seep amber with cankerous infection.
Arbor(su)icide or accident of circumstance?
Frenetic meat-monkey, my escape proved too easy.
Love, did you choke on my pain until I could fly free?
The Druid's Well 
Now, THAT’S poetry! I’m sorry your tree didn’t make it.
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Thank you, on both counts. I’m going to dinner with my folks tonight. It’s going to be strange not to have it there to greet me.
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