The bud on the tree is slender and pointed. It hasn’t swelled to its spring fecundity yet. It is a spearhead aimed at the sky. Not waiting, but accusing. Where’s the weather that will make me great? Why isn’t the sun out making the sap flow and giving me life? I am forced to sleep, but I want to wake. I dream of greenness and gentle breezes nudging me into my neighbors, so that we may whisper secrets. I have nightmares of great winds tearing me from my tree and carrying me to a far away place to die. I dream most of basking in golden light and never being alone again.

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