The worried oak shakes his head over me;
I can’t wait for him to have leaves again,
I need to see how my geese are doing,
hope to find you standing in the distance,
or someone like you. I need to feel my blood.
At home in heated rooms I can’t find life
where only caged birds live. I walk in cold,
exist in memories of warmer days.
I have been dead too long now to give up.
Like trees I shall invent myself once more.