I saw
old Douglas fir fallen. Wind
blown from a storm years ago;
Gave the freedom of death
decay, life given back. Back
to its' roots the grew
in Earth, rotten vegetations-Generations
of death giving life taking the dead.
She lies on side, mossy death dress
adorned with trees growing along
Her skyward flank.
Some call her a mother, I call
Her an experience, memory,
Picture of death-in bliss.
Revolution of rebellion trees taking
over dead flesh, roots stabbing rot,
dead but not gone, only forgotten-
I wonder of the tree had cancer like I,
If it weakened her from the inside
so the wind could make the kill,
Much like the infection that tried to kill me,
I was weak, much too weak from cancer,
The tried to blow me down.
My only hope is that when I fall upon the ground
I give back an ounce
Of what one tree has given me.
