I see your fingers and your inward form. The mysteries, with your leaves, are gone. And what's left is my drape of dewy days upon your desert form.
Why did I not hear the termagant saws shear your habitable fronds; your revenge covert, bites my hedging heart. I dismissed you when you were here to miss you less when you were gone.
Now I rove along your brown bark and bones to think up a leaf for every inch and get instead a grave of thorns.