The Root of All This

Trees were mean spirited,

the way they taunted us with their luscious conversation

and then froze us out like icicles when they couldn't hold their own

they were a wicked breed. these trees.

they had no foresight,

no hindsight

they wanted for nothing

they needed us more than we needed them,

that's what I used to think.

And then I got here, to winter,

to 2061, with my many, many fissures

and they looked just the same

and then way back there. by the death of a yellow station wagon, sat my brood.

in my stead. my wings. my thread.