Our endless lives.

Our endless lives.


Wild things grow in
the woods that we walk.

Bracket fungi, like wooden
rainbows, protrude
with stiff ruffled blooms
out of fallen trees
now disintegrating every day—
turning red from decay.

Once the home of songbirds and
their nests filled with babies;
and insects, and leaping squirrels,
and knocking woodpeckers.
Once the tall lookout
of the horned owls who live here.
Once with leaves that made a sound
like music before a spring storm.
Once with bark that was fresh
grey, or brown, and patterned in
some way that distinguished
it as a particular kind of tree.
Once sending out seedpods
or sap or a leaf in the shape of a hand.
Once with branches that looked
like fine black lines in winter,
stretching out towards the
ether blue of the sky.

Some still have
knots that feel like
eyes that watch us as we
walk and foolishly think
of our endless lives.

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