all day I watched him fight 

to dig up the dead 

tree deep in the woods, 

and take sips of moonshine 

from a stained glass jar. 

the wind sent loose dirt 

into my red-liquid eyes, 

scratched on the surface 

to let in some forgotten light. 

all day I searched 

for copperheads in hiding, 

but I only found the exposed roots  

clawing at a pink sky, tool-bruised 

hands, that chipped tooth-grin. 

and there, in the brutal  

winter sun’s warmth, 

his kiss was deep enough to feel 

like that dead tree refusing to uproot, 

and finally blooming.