Any day now

 

Eyes of trees stare 

through the window  

peeled birch skin exposes 

tender yellow layers 

to the grey cast sky

 

I rifle through the leaves 

of the internet 

clicking  

searching for any meaningful 

echo

oak

sycamore

spruce

overlapping tangible beings

meanwhile

 

the meaning of work eludes me 

floating in this heavy bog

to make money

to fill bellies

god it's a swampy thing

pain as a door

joblessness as a door

love as a door

or maybe I mean 

a tree

 

not a flat dead slab 

on hinges 

but a rooted living wood 

which climbs 

itself into the sky

the branches extend in the cold

I know they grow 

cell by cell

the sap will soon flow just 

give it time