I’ve learned to exist like the larch,
patiently waiting for the ice to melt
in the ultra-short summer-
a little liquid sufficient
for the drawn out winter
when it keeps its head frozen solid.
I know I am so safe
with you in this familiar place.
And when someone comes along-
a hot brute wind-
that blows me open, I only lose
a handful of hairs. Tear and surrender
them for analysis under
a magnifying mirror. How bent and split
each appears. Thick and warped
and lovely tree with needs
whittled to bonsai dimensions,
I know too well
how long you have lived
so near the cold pole.
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