COTTONWOOD
Death, dying.
'Tis the season.
My heart converses with these giants
Who hold to the harsh granite rock,
Thin soil.
Roots, their fingers clinging to uncertainty,
The struggle for purchase,
Grasping goodness where it is sparse and spare.
They thrive, grow green and strong.
The crew sang out: "Oh, no. Only the dead ones."
Lies!
~ Sandra Hofferber
