Lines of Meaning Begging You to Bury Them

There’s an urge to write about the dirt
Or the silhouette of the small tree,
An ornamental variety

Tossing in wintry late-autumn sun.
Every combination of phrases,
Remarkable or wholly cliche,

Feels like a sealed glass container
With a slight crack allowing tendrils
To invade—a box of glass-green thoughts

Grown in an unclear relationship.
You realize that the silhouette
Is matched up to the invasive vines,

That the dirt and the branches remain
The same system, and you want to see
The silhouettes through the moss-green glass

Echoing not only each other
But the phrases each performed as lines
Intertwined with dirt and mystery.