Sometimes the parable has more
Underlay to it
Than ‘truth’ itself. Within the coma
Of a year’s stark breath
The Flowering Tree has known
Rankness. Frailty. Near death.
But what of concepts germinated
When the leaf was truly green?
More pliable? When
Time’s perpetuity evolved
To the salute
Of an earth-keeping unlined hand?
Conceptually, the “I” remains – as
It must. From
Beyond the society-of-one
There’s another
Masquerading “anon”.
She knows of the slit
In the belly…
The segregated tongue.
Sometimes
The parable is thunder.
Is exorcism.
Is her Modoc chant.
Sometimes, on account,
She’ll name
Her assassins.