Pulse.

The branches reach down to cradle the bank, a skin of bark

Growing into gnarled awnings, clutched in a morphic expression of

arthritic discomfort; peering through the fog, a face that seems to growl

with a toothless mouth dripping green lichen beneath bracket fungus.

Sitting and willing the profound to reveal itself and paint upon my mind

A glory of seasonal transformation; if I could be silent and even still

The pulse of my heart I might hear the babble of the water,

It might tell me the joy of its endless dance...

My blue eye bleeds the frost of winter and barrenly chills what i survey,

Whilst my red eye burns into the future and sees the thaw that

Precipitates regrowth; it is seemly that I look both forward and back,

Seeing as one, the pulse in its entirety.