1975

I am a stump
that grows shoots in the woods.
Damp fungi grow in my sides.
I absorb the rain and sun
with equal indifference.

I am an apple tree.
When the water rises in the earth to touch
my roots, I will become all blossom,
too delicate for my stiff branches.
Who notices the beauty that's their own?
the things of lasting value
that they cast beside them
as they hasten towards their end?
I'm making apples.

I want to be a mushroom
and feel the warm feet of the chipmunks
press against me as they search
for the dead nuts fallen from the trees.
The sun is very far away.