My saturated stems

Although my roots are deep,
my mourning leans towards death;
drown these sorrows on the eve of a
silver lake, so I may sleep amongst my
earthen friends - long since gone,
to rest.

I reach with withered sticks,
tangled limbs towards grey
skies, crying - bare trunk,
once a soul, now left -
alone.

Swirling underneath,
such currents rage
this calm appearance,
surface, but a stage.

Twisted roots
Gnarled,
at the base
I can no longer
see ahead,
nor wish
to face.

My saturated stems.