his

on the inside, he is
garden. wild forest within
fascia. woodland
that has died &
cycled through its
husk over & over &
again, & come
back to itself. his
are the unending
roots, holding hands
with ancestors. his is
the face that follows
the sun, & tulip body
grown from clay, never
still. his is the strolling
growth, quiet in its
giving, humble in how
it keeps so many
alive.

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