From the mire and muck, uprooted,
Trunk packed, and limbs exfoliated,
Lifting branches to the morning sky
She learns from mourning doves to fly.
Either we shall die, or we shall live
And living’s hard, but death’s a bore:
Eternal snore! So there’s the choice –
Death’s silence, or Life’s grating voice.
Wandering through the forest, I
plucked at its foliage,
ate of its fruit,
slept in its shade,
and left no trace…
save for this poem. But
if there’s no one in the woods, no one
have I left it better than it was?