Grafted In

Cut off

from all I once was,

sap bleeding

from my open wound,

the life drains out of me

drop

by drop—

the dry and dreary road

to the Gardener’s fire.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The spill stills

when the

drain down

wells up

in a flood

of the blood

of the wound

of another—

a tree cut off

to welcome me in,

the wounds

of our flesh

held flush

by the Gardener’s strong hand:

scion to rootstock,

death to life,

as we heal

into one.