The locals, god bless’em, are as long-dead as you can be
and they ain’t the ones planted them damn trees anyhow. Those’re just babies
no matter how tall you think they got. No matter.
Never you mind your good god damns for bellyache daydreams
about what where and how, whow as quick and wild over the roots,
stalking elegant game and not wasting the guts
and s’forth.Gallivanting as they are wont to do
in the very skins of what they ate.
Yae, unto heathen gods they did pray.
to the reach hallow branches that found their own way,
and each was fed on the breath of the other. Then.
Caint be. You caint s’much as dream of old trees
that were s’tall and grew wild in the winding way
of confused monoliths. Sired by but chaos and
growin to give the sun itself whatfor.
Those aint for you and the heads that dreamt ‘em
have long found the fine cleared soil.
Damn far off.
It’s a long spell before the other folks come and tore the dirt, planted and made their way
not knowin their young. They were many.
I say to you.
Those were just abandoned babies swaddling, that stand of trees
and the grown men who do the collectin come to collect ‘em.
They said “don’t make me come over and collect you,”
guess what they did anyhow
as they are wont to do.
They come playin music from the ground,
plucking roots and strumming out rows.
Ain’t it a hilarity
that soil from which something has been ripped
looks tilled all the same?
This song is oblivion.
Kay lives/works as a teacher in South Texas. Aside from poetry, Kay writes fiction and just can’t stop thinking about coyotes. Kay is the recipient of a Governor’s Scholarship for Excellence in Writing and graduated with an MA in TESL from the University of Texas at San Antonio. Find her at: firstname.lastname@example.org