All doom is slow and inevitable
in the forest mind, the monoecious trees march
out in all directions, each season
the forest advances, each season green
assumes, further, further. How do I
grow, how do I keep green? Corvids
lord over the canopy, doing the forest’s bidding
and minding trees of worm
and mite. Crows high and tall, jays
along the mid-canopy, always
calling, their calls a kind of laughter
dashing between the viney wood
and the vacant lot topped with a cherry
tree flowering. Already some blooms have thrown down
their bouquets. Jays go blue for another. King
or queen? All alike and alike, the band
of color on color, blue and black, exchanging acorns, exchanging
laughter, dropping a forest child here
and there along wooded ways. A tree
is a window. Through it, the question carries
with the wind, with the wind
carries the laughter, the cherry heather, wondrous
same of same, the laughter. Growing. A kind
of hope. Can I live
in its steeple? How can I not wish
to climb, to see
what I can see?