Reduced to its skeleton, the tree
remembers days of birds in bowers,
leaves atwitter,
branches bent with the weight of fruit,
and now bent with the wait of days
when flourishing's a memory.

But still the soil nurtures.
Still the roots draw deep and branches
in their stasis grow in strength.
Still rosehips bud where flowers did
and the eagle,
grace in his pinions,
takes twigs and plants them
atop His rising hill.

Son of man,
speak to the bones.
Speak to the longing marrowed in bones.
Speak more than the mere promise of seasons:
speak deep to the riddles of blood and bone earth.
Son of man,
shall these bones live?