If I’m a tree planted by streams, why
is my tongue dry, my roots unquenched?
Once, I had woodpecker wings,
travelled through oak forests. Now,
when I open my eyes, sun mocks me.
I search the cracked ground like a weed.
I’m thrashed from all that was you
and your eye, Lord. Your rooster comb
smile, your wool, the rose petals
under your tongue.
I have journeyed far. No acacias
in sight. And where is my fruit?