fingers of red sumac flail
importune the heaving cypress
any wind is stronger than
plants preferring to idle
they flutter without intent
touch without desire
the camera shoots
no choice but to represent
a chorus of sumac leaves
aroused, mutely screaming
you think I’m dead because I’m shriveled & gray
strung from a twig in my bare winter garden
listen, I’m dissolving into my DNA
spiracles pipe me air, instructions guide
my reconstitution, when spring comes
— spine-tingling spring — I’ll emerge
winged, bright colored, I’ll bowl you over
if only the birds had subtitles
the moose whose heap of scat
spans the trail a Go-Pro, the porcupine
whose droppings carpet the crest
inside the anticline a Roomba
so I could clean-crawl all the way
to tunnel’s end, swivel to peer through
middles of beech & elm, maple & oak
black cherry, their wornout leaves
swinging from spent stems, squirrels
& chipmunks caching, slanting sun
glazing scarred rock, if only the wind
would hold still, the air congeal
around October days until December
tree trunks
grown together
the one draped
diagonally
across the other
like a loaded
bandolier — gnarled
bolls, peckered
holes, barks
peeled to pith
not a limb
or a crown
between them —
stout souls
they stand
until some wind
some flood, some
cataclysm
dares to throw
them over
