before the winds bend you back

and the wasps and sweat bees trot upon your face
slurping down all your sap

before the sun beats your colors pale

But still… on the banks of the Hudson
there a bloom born of Septembers past

Let me gather you, cupping at your roots
prying you free of all that’s loose
and shifty muck

Between crisp sheets
like parchment
rest

I the mountain
Press
us into new life
tears sopped up
till the blood runs clear