In my moist soiled hands the roots break through.
I hold this tree for us.
Guarded with solidity of birch,
this tree has grown in my breast.
Soft are the branches in my arms,
they cry for sun and your lavendar warmth.
Sap in my tears,
puddles gather in my swollen eyes.
Looming over my head are these wood-green leaves.
They laugh and talk of winter.
How bitter cold to think,
I seeketh deep the summer winds.

Heavy once were my green limbed feet,
yet the rain has left the sky.
Drawn cold and gray with time,
these green leaves sleep and dream of you.
Brisk is the willowed winds, they kiss my birchen cheeks.
Winter's mirthless blood has watered down my roots.
Swelling,
Longing for your lavendar warmth they cry.