What prepares and plows these stripped fingers,

where the bones are bare, until they blossom brightly?

My friendly face welcoming the tree’s waving arms,

flickering the light, as if to extend a gesture.

My many ray florets beam yellow, mini discs at my core,

small fruit sucked dry by predators buzzing flight.

And though there are many of me swaying in the autumn breeze,

there is not one who makes the air still and lovely to see.

I stand, waiting with the gods, fighting with my tooth-leaf

blades. The golden plume of wind carries my soul asunder.

A wavey ascension through atmosphere comes to an end,

and this whole beautiful thing starts all over again.

 Shawn McCann is a writer, husband, stay-at-home dad, and a disabled combat veteran who lives in Los Angeles, CA with his family. He served four tours in Iraq and writes about those terrifying moments that won’t leave him alone. You can find his work in the Nude Bruce Review, The Raven Review, and Abandon Journal with more on the way.