seed-spells.

Oh, that I could.
Rinse the rust from your crown
Loosen your roots
Soft enough to hear us again

I would slip the weight from your shoulders
Banish the rot
So you may see the clarity
Etched in bloom

Walk gently now,
Sweet-blooded thing.
Scatter what you carry
A trail of seed-spells.

So that when you turn your gaze
To the place you once stood
There, in your wake
A chorus of colour.

Lush and wild.
Not every stem bends,
Some hold,
And some pierce.

But oh,
How they flower.