Wormwood

If a am a tree I am dead
Dried-up wormwood,
Eaten through 
With homegrown lies—
A dirty dearth of earthly material.
Burn through me;
Cut me down.
Grow your fresh green shoot
Up through my roots
Reengineer ancestry
And plant me by the stream
That feeds the boughs which 
Blossom in the eons.