You go deep—roots into trunk into branches of oxygen—
so that stem cells of me (more plant than human)
photosynthesize in your sunlit attention.
All green with bud am I (gold with sap),
forming in the space before thought becomes a word.
It is your constant speaking I crave, diamond-etched on my brow.
This parchment scroll I unroll tells me who you are and, by extension, me.
How you hold history (all of me) in a book, the Word made flesh
sustaining this brand-new tree.
Choose this fruit, daily.
