Tonight you are seated at the base
of a tree in the desert. You hold a
clay bowl full of water. The tree
seasons in an instant – flower
leaves falling bare. It repeats. It
repeats. One of the flowers
spirals down and lands in your
bowl. You think I have invented
tea. A pause. The tree has invented
tea. The world is heating up,
Spring shortening every cycle.
The tree is dying, but you have
already drunk your tea. The tree
needs. You focus and exhale, turn
to water and absorb into the soil.
You are a tree in the desert, a clay
bowl at your roots. Your trunk
carries a hint of human memory,
that some god of sacrifice was
also harbinger of rebirth.
Click here to read JeFF Stumpo on the origin of the poem.
Image by Osman Durmaz on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- [Tonight you are seated at the base of a tree in the desert…] - February 13, 2026


