The Sunday Tree

Sunlight
shoots up and down our spines
and we stand,
drugged by wind,
but without wonder
a bliss foreign to flesh
why man mourns rain.

Liquid amber
seeps slow, like honey
only sweeter.
I can't taste it yet
shielded by shadows
oh lonely nectar
thickened by frost
a bitter solstice beneath cool skin.


In reverence
we bow
dry, gnarled and thin
virtuous to our roots
bent by wind, sallowed by footsteps
but still proudly,
we remain
for there is no cure
stronger than the bluest of skies.

© Mallory Tater