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?