Sprouting

They shot a bird
With a pellet gun -
I heard a maddened pop!

And raced to a grave
Of grass and poppies:
Something hellish; it rots

To the soil beneath it
In thin, flowing threads
That I try to catch

And tie to my hand.
Lacing, slowly lacing
Until I weigh a strength.

I feel my skin harden,
And my feet growing roots,
And my hands spinning thread.

Now the bird
Can still be saved,
But how long can I wait?