When I don’t sense you, I become
a tree in the midst of the desert –
without water, leafless, forsaken.
In my branches, the sap turns to stone.
My root shrivels. I age so much
that I’m but bark and dry wood
fit only for worms or the fire.
But when you return, bird of my Spring,
you fill me with life, with song.
You touch me and I bear fruit.
Because of you I’m crowned with life.
* * *
© Gregory V Driscoll 2013