Some days, only the shapes of what I've done remain on the tree— Forms wrapped in freezing rain, their outlines a kind of crystallized intention even as flesh browns and softens with rot, leaking through the cracks. Remember the vibrant reds and yellows, how they freckled and bloomed into taste on your tongue? We learn how, even composted, everything is sugar. It's what both the vulture and crow intuit, and the maggot in the bin. I am sorry for the waste, for the ways dumb appetite translates excess into pain. Still, I want to keep alive the hope that what remains isn't shroud or elegy; isn't the hull of what was abandoned but what endured, despite.