Mulch Cemetery

Even without the inside rings, so ancient

wrung dry the tears of what used to be young before we were born

(not all Trees but some).

I think of the fingers that brushed your bark over the years

the carvings there, L V, every letter in between.

Do they care it feels like paper cuts, as they pulp your ancestors to page

no elders for the saplings, they know they’ll never know the centuries

unless luck sprays rabbit’s blood and chain around your waist

(some hippies) they think of dirt, detritus, and what could actually be.

We know you can speak

but you don’t we know there's a soul within the rings,

the cares you scream, with every whitening stripe from bark.

Before you’ve seen all

and rage not to be like the mountain, unbowed

we use your bones for chairs

(at least no waste no blessing in sight)

when we use your fingers and trunk but leave the toes.

I wonder sometimes a Tree thinks if we said we love you would you care?

or just hear and think of another breath to eat

(always too much in excess of food)

with death upon the floor begging at your feet

seeing far below hell they know a cycle that is sacred.

You’ve brushed things the gods hold:

sky, breath, and the color of Sun

Everlasting, hug the weeds, maggots, seeds

time passing in a way, some only know in days.

I’ve never thought of you this way,

But hope you think of me with less dismay.