For now, this girdled hourglass
preserves Tree’s vertical:
a monument to gnawing doubts,
camel straws,
tipping points and indecision
by a certain whittling Beaver.
After all,
beneath Russian roulette splinters
the fall could also fell the executioner.
Be forewarned, Tree groans to Rodent:
when you take me down, I could take you with me:
Live free, dude, and die.
Spooked by seismic shudders
Beaver takes a breather
and places trust in strong winds and weather,
bog-happy fungi and bacteria
to further soften capillaries;
praying, maybe, for a buck’s antler-rub
a bear’s love-tap
a snow-load’s imbalance
an overweight squirrel
a chainsaw-toting biped
to share the credit and the blame
when hell breaks loose again.
From one upright organism to another,
I’ve gotta say:
It hurts to watch a neighbor
weather, limp and stagger.
Or maybe Tree will sink, relieved,
into ripe pillows of decay;
kneel and make an offering:
A banquet after banquet of itself
gives up the ghost of growth rings
to acids strong enough
to carve fresh carbon ghosts
from cellulose, chitin, lignin –
and in due time, our bones.