I spent so much time on it,
wasting time on it,
thinking myself a fallen tree.
A ghost trail of pine needles
and broken branches,
never to be ventured again.
While hikers and pretenders
kept on walking by,
I observed who I used to be,
And wondered if there were times
when the ground forgot
to swallow certain kinds of men.
From this lowly vantage point,
I looked for my kind
and found a hollowed trunk of ash,
Where new shoots, like stalagmites
attempted once more
to escape the borer’s fancy.
A fruitless effort, some say,
a Hail Mary—
it will all be over in a flash.
But lucky them, they’re earless,
so they keep going,
searching for a path we can’t see.
I looked at my dirty feet.
Barefoot as they were,
I could still wriggle my pale toes.
They didn’t yet feel like me
but the soft waking
of new seeds looking to plant roots.
No, none of what happened was gone,
and as I stood up,
I remembered why I froze,
But lying there in the dirt
wasn’t any good,
so I went looking for my boots.
— ❧ —
Poetry Corner
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