forest sonnet for fourteen (condemned) trees
nothing tells us when we are there (or when
we are not) when to leave our soil-gods
to the warm invasion of fungus and worm and when
(if ever) to look up and pray. the extinct languages
of Fagus and Quercus hang green. their perished camouflage
with mycelium trim wedged between dead-mans
leaves and bark-grey documents of sky (that blur
with the wind) are doomed we are told.
we are told not to feed any more ghosts through each other
the way a whole forest moves silence from the hush
of one tree to the next. no more khaki stealth. no needles.
no soft-emerald ooze no sifting for divinities allowed.
nothing tells us the xylem. or where the first amoeba seas
(now viscous and woody with time) keen