. . .
gazing eyes see the forest grounded trunks rooted stone quiet misty and slow and timeless cashmere soft moss clutching buxom lignin muscles almost always sleeping only opening leaves to catch droplets and photons growing as slowly as earth rotates in the grand scheme it's pretty quick but in the monkey's fist, a stick, two hundred years old it knows the monkey's mother, and her mother, and hers its knowledge hides away from creatures stoic plants feel, in the wind a blur, a frenzy generations of animals smear away in time flashy and fast and cunning gripping claw scratches kicking dust up from the crust always pricked ears only closing one eye during the night dashing through dreams between days that last only for a beat and in their veins slow memories digest what it was like to run and be singular and die as quickly as the sun whips around the earth unattainable for the trees standing in colonies secret mushroom clusters forget the forest, the fauna piles of death discarded for dismantling imperfect and differentiated and broken frothy sinew tangle dripping guts gristle and skin ready for destruction only living so that the clock is exhausted crumbling as slowly as possible but what's the point, wonders the fungus who merely has to wait for your frail body to be cracked, bludgeoned, cut down, twitching, spewing, rotting and then forget
. . .
(written 3/25/18)