I grasp the thorny-stalked, lobe-leafed
plants near their base & yank up
the roots, shallow & widely branched
they leap from the soil, a wad of tangle
no flowers, no fruit, too many thorns
sheath all but the oldest stalks, thorns
eager to snag my skin when I walk
the woods, so I weed them out, as if
I deserve to shape the woods, decide
which plants live, which plants die
which fallen limbs must be tossed
onto piles, which young trees lopped
the woods observe me, endure me
someday soon they know I’ll be gone
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