Where a fractalizing floral pattern

Bursts from the thorns

I surround myself with

To count time’s rustling movement

In the leaping unsteady growth

Of pink cactus buds.

Yet I can not fault the juniper tree,

Growing at a 90 degree angle,

A mile from my home,

It huddles, like a group of children,

And reaches out to hold the sun between its stubby fingers,

All the while issuing its lazy collection of soft blue fruit,

Which I gather to make gin.

Yet I have built my survival on tin,

And I leer at the open space

It promises through its absence

And I dream of tin forests.

I dream of tin children, and tin fruit.

I dream of tin palaces, tin holidays, and tin skies.

And I fear the harsh judgement of the woods.