Fast typing - "On Humility"

ice in the grass of want: queen of leaf-rot, I’ve let go—

after leaf-drop—what I thought I needed, resolve in the red oak—

wintering, I tuck myself in behind a slab of bark while blue jays tear at cells of pulp, consuming what’s left of my dead—

spring is an instinct that shall not rest—

a tomb, a tone, atone