Rest, dearest one, the winds of time have blown past your brittle bones far too many times, swathed in dust your ebonized lungs gasp for wispy air, a long drawn out tussle for warmth has penciled you blue, your eyes muddied by the volcanic ashes of lost fortune.
So, rest, dearest one, ensconce yourself now under my canopy of overhanging branches and lucent aspen leaves, my roots will soothe you under the nascent rays of a blond gossamer sun, my bark will nourish you as it banishes to oblivion that which misled you, and the sweet fragrance of loam beneath our toes will plant a dream in you.
