Thumbs black with ink.

I thought, perhaps,

My word could plant its roots,

And stay there, stone

Against the wind -

But once the hurricanes came around,

It flew away,

More like the roses in the ground

Than that old oak it seemed to me -

Perhaps I should have watched it more,

Watered those roots, chased worms away,

And if I'd known its end was near,

Perhaps it would be here to stay.

My fault alone, I think -

No less. 

And yet it's so hard

Not to miss

That leafy shade

And steady trunk

That stole my doubts

And left me drunk,

And now it's gone,

Forever missed,

And I stand

Confessing

To the winds.