The tree in Urlachmar grows black and damp into
the ground. Aren't trees supposed to reach above,
stretching their arms and spines like people do,
yawning and yearning for atmospheric love?
Instead, she buries her roots in an earthly womb,
sinking and curling in quiet hibernation.
Her body, dark with winter, forms a tomb,
and descends into the warmth of fetal position.
She finds repose inside, the tree who hides
from the thief of light and growth, whose limbs recoil
from chill to seek out nurturing heat with sighs
as mine do, burrowing beneath the soil.
And I, too, find a winter retreat
in original pose: my limbs pulled close for heat.