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I learn little from the wood carving
etched into this lifeless tree

it’s not for me
to dig too far into ambiguous revelations

could be cryptic could be or banal
or a marker of love’s frolicking pals

anyway, it’s probably another
one of nature’s pages hardened by age
corroding in the toxic dew of morning sunlight

the moss has grown much too dense
obscuring its meaning
wallowing in forgotten song

I’ll just keep probing on
through the evergreens further on ahead

and pass those replanted
and reflect upon the ones who bleed
thick and viscous fumes

it just seems more productive
to try to find a sprout
that has passed through this thick phase of earth
without recoil or prejudice

stretching newness into the air

then I’ll clear the dust from its appendages
and then shine it with my mind

ah indeed, free from thought once again
when all about remains true in form