Though not a juicer,

this guy's a ‘produicer’,

a catalyst of a kind.

“There’s one! It has three prongs.”

“Nah, that’s not it. That’s the impostor.”

Exhaustion thick as concrete.

You actually begin to sleep.

But a crack forms in the wall.

It is the end of sleep.

Way back at the beginning,

remember Plan A?

You had an idea.

Put it into play.

What if we,

that is me and you

could put our feet down

and see something new?

The full poem and my Theoretically, one tree,

but reality says three.

The eldest surely will die.

For though it’s the tallest

its foliage the smallest,

all it can see is the sky.

If only this crooked stick

were a magical wand.

I could remove the thick

feeling of being beyond.

Maybe I stop here,

maybe I don’t.

Shut up and get out!

Do it now or you won’t.

There is no rhodo or azalea or laurel.

What’s the same is the claim

in the nightwing’s dark quarrel.

So strange is this opposition,

a contrasting coalition.

Though they go their own way,

they are a part of this play.

When I can finally bear

to stroll about this land.

The green regrows the fair.

Now I can understand.