I have bent so long in evading the terror of winds that had snapped my fae and brittle branches sapped of their small strength– for what is youth without love and forgiveness for what we've not learned but a toil meant to carry these, our graces out from under soil we were taught should fair, sustain us but for some contains unknown, confounding and poisonous dimensions–? What came mixed in the hummus I bathed in on mornings spent longing for a mother's touch–? but the first lovers we desperate assumed would replace what stalwart fed us still instead with the absence of sunlight and water we play as the rain on ourselves, rather basking in its falling. Might we sigh and determine the process unnatural of cleansing this rope from the ends of our threads of tentative plying–? into networks of knowledge we pass from the one to the other as fungal fruit; of tender, sweet and missives here so preliminal they speak in whispers, only to greet us as we stand to bring fair tidings of the care and possibility beneath their branches. "Be of the forest and not of the bones "we believe hold us here to inspire "the glory of our being; "a sequoia stood long "as the hill it grew in "place just to define them. "Sup from our waters and heed our advice– "we declare you thus ready to seed "our futures new ways still to sway "upon the breeze; "open hearts can withstand "any onslaught," like these, who betray us into believing that hope had no reason, home nor causes.