December 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
The Undead Forests
You can still smell the smoke
Trapped between the paper leaves;
The wood sawn and pulped
Into a mass of crinkled autumn.
But still the dead trees grow:
The oaken cases stand in rows
With shelves like branches, stemming fruit;
The books, where inky tree sap flows
To hidden seeds, who take their root.