Agent Cooper

You know, there are wonderful poems on a similar theme. In winter, it froze, in spring, it bloomed – that trunk. It was a support, it governed my breath. And now it’s gone, leaving me orphaned – at the mercy of the seven winds. And I can only entwine, warm, and protect from wounds. My voice – a gentle soprano – was created to echo, not to lead. What arguments did that trunk have with the wind! How it drank the storm with its fiery crown! It wanted to fly – but fell prostrate with a groan, and I wove armor for it. Oh, the threads of memory of past years, when these branches intertwined with the wind, bringing my shoots to light! Bringing my shoots to light... Oh, trunk, the only one in the world. I am a thin ivy, the seventh sound in the octave, the missing line of the sonnet. I grew whimsically, fought for this right, battling the storm with a straight trunk. I am only a vine, young, not a warrior, I am only worthy of life together with it. And I lived – as long as it breathed and bloomed, that trunk, that trunk...