Shrunken maple, I turn
my hand to catch the twilight
glitter across
your veined skin.
The garden is filled
with silence
as the haze rests
over the long tomato rows.
Echoes of stars beat
through blackening trees
that have burned
with light for a hundred years.
Are you filled with years, fated to burn
quietly overshadowed?
In my hand I feel my blood
reach for yours
to know that we are brothers.
Our stories are written
in black dirt
to grow with wood and mist.
Andrea Gawrylewski
