There is a forest beneath, I should not say it lies in waiting. Time does not enter into it. Blind fetus of trees and grasses, Nursed by shadows. Above its leafy crown A scab of concrete festers, Born of a human fever To harness the world like a mule. Light seeps in like a weeping wound, Touches leaf-tips curled in fists below. The buried trees feel the now of that light. No future fever rages in their roots. They simply take the intended action. Green fingers probe the crusted cracks. The forest begins arriving. People will poison it, flay it, bury it again. It will keep arriving. It will keep arriving Until it arrives completely in a silent world, Unaware of its own arrival Or of that brief, noisy age of murder Before it arrived.