The Forest Beneath

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s