It might not be too late
to start a life I might
be proud of,
but the roots
are staying here
for now.

The soil has hardened.
In the forest of Mexican
sycamores and white oaks,
I find myself growing moldy.

The crows already know my name.
A ****** nests in my branches.
Their black wings
A choir of omens.

Broken and rebuilt,
I shade the weight
of every life
I’ve already lived.