Dreams of a Mulberry Tree
I dream of the lone mulberry tree again, the green hue of its leaves strikingly bright against the same desolate landscape, alive in the barren and cold arctic atmosphere, domed-sky tinted grey.
I dream of the berries syrupy taste lingering in my mouth, fingertips stained dark-pink and palms sticky while I watch rivers of juice flow down the bark, catching and pooling in carved grooves.
I dream of the ice cracking, fracturing beneath as the sound reverberates across the stunted snow globe, each frozen plate sliding and concaving inwards as I stumble, slipping into the frigid sea.
I dream of the waters clawing at my skin and clothes, drawing me into its depths, while I stare at the dark dot of the lone mulberry tree, its roots unable to break through the glazed over water.
I dream of sinking deeper into the ocean, away from the lone mulberry tree waiting for me.
