Chirping for Drops.

She hears the moth-eaten train raining in the distance,
Its heartbeat thumping in the back of her bark neck,
Her lumbered ribs swell and sweat
A drop trickling down to her timid pulp.
She swallows her breath down, waiting for the moth-eaten train.
Black vultures above her wisp the clouds away
As the smell of metal cutting vein deep
Stays sweet on their wooden lips.
An army of daymares come stumbling down the hill
With knives for feet dug deep, they limp.
Her shrivelled roots pull their sharp necks into the thirsty soil,
Weaving traps for Erl-Kings and choking gargoyles.
Victorious, yet she won’t step, root away
From the chooing rail that churns closer.
As the train spots the lit tree house in her shoulders,
A flashlight mirrors a flicker in the sky
She feels her parched spine tingled,
An unzipped rail teased by lightning,

She is being watched.

Three brothers clasp arms around her trunk,
One weeps a weeping song to her drying bark
While the other wails his promises of Burma shave
And another woos to branch her down a thousand kisses deep,
But the tree now seems deaf, her senses asleep.
As the train spits steam shots reaching the woods
Her three brothers now chant like woodpeckers,
Musical notes chipping at her roots
But her leaves now shake with forecast.
The train is still trying towards her,
Hopeful metal rusting, wanting to be one with nature.
The climax begins as she stretches out her trunk
Eager for collision, the swelling storm, the damp wonder,
He crashes into her mercy seat,
His final stop (birds whistle).
She sweeps what dust is left of him into the air
His particles spring to the sky, cocooning a thunder,
The sound of a drop in a tin metal can that haunts her.

Holding out her skin soft branches in the rain,
She wonders if her chirping brothers are the ones to blame.



[The rain choos:
“When will I ever be your husband?
When will you ever be my bride?
When will you take me from this place
Where hope and hopelessness collide?”]