Birch

who marked the birch

different in skin,

and placed it at this spot

and this time to be caught

in the slanted rays of the sun,

at the tired end of day?

who brought me here

like i've been brought before,

unprepared for the gifts presented?

what is in common,

the aging of my open hands

and the leaf less birch

stark white in contrast

to the woods surrounding?

and i, in skin

stretched over bone frame,

am still and bent

and white and waiting,

grasping at the sky as the tree,

that rises beyond me,

showing me the faith of the hand

feeling the wood,

rooted and reaching,

touching the vitals of the earth rising,

ever rising to the underside of god.