it is not likewe can wait,burning as we dowith the long ache fordissolution of selfamong the choir of trees –barefeet crunchingin late summer leaves it is not likewe can wait,hem entangledin snag breath lichen twigsand thorn –to part ferns, soft grownknee high, to findthis slow undoingwhere the longing of bonesmeets rapturousthe long silence of trees.…