the tree

I wander through your life,
pick berries
that fall from tall branches.
All of them taste you,
briny on the lips,
sending an eruption of sensation
that no breeze can soothe.

You are secreted in the roots,
flower as a rumour,
burrow in the cleft between
leaf and colour,
skin and intent,
burgeon as a fruit
when desire becomes verb.

Poem A Day

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