Each root of the crippled spruce
exposed from
the barren earth,
resilient as the solemn night
working twice as hard
to break from its sequestered solitude
and to gaze upon
the slate of glass
up above

Skimmed from the river
down the hill,
cracked by the fish
writhing freely,
each uncharted movement
an opaque
and
ivory
orison

Leaves wrenched asunder from the
withered branches
preserved in the frigid caress
of the current;
fallen soldiers
with nothing to show,
a purpose
a meaning
a sound of freedom
to resonate through
the blackened soot
of polluted streams,
swirling in their clouded
arrogance
to enshroud the pockets
of limpid white
to cover their
incandescent glow
their virtues and depth