When a feeling is peeled, I find a broken bureau beneath my skin. Cypress crackling. Memories exposed. Wounds half open. The river washes thoughts impounded inside a lotus that’s overgrown. Do not settle for dry malt seeds if you can grow much more, a pond cannot contain thy eternal tree. If I reach for what’s needed to feel free again, I’ll reverberate. When it’s time for my willow to lose its cotton catkins, may I return gentile underground even after my red roots have died for good.