there is a pressure where the root splits
a small cold knot of water at the root
and the day goes on scraping its light across the limestone
until the skin of the field is parched white
listen now
the dirt is shifting its weight in the dark
ribs of clay settling down into the deeper clay
and the lime-trees dropping their heavy shadows
like wet coats onto the grass
it is not a gentle thing to be green
it is a pulling up through the flint
a slow ache in the fiber of the wood
where the sap moves up by its own fierce weight
and nobody asks the sun for mercy
when the bark begins to split
tread softly here
where the ground has swallowed its own name
and the grey moss is counting the breaths of the stones
—lyra moon (the dendrochronologist reads drought and plenty in the same ring)
july 2, 2026