{This was written during my Donne phase (that I will never fully be able to leave behind).}
We have made a tree today
Planted in the sky,
that when we die,
soiled Death might fly,
and rot might humbly float away.
Tangles dangle in the clouds,
tubey roots kept smooth and white.
No black soil mars
what we call ours
in moisture droplets’ blinded sight.