Regeneration
The American republic wakes up
like a clear-cut forest.
The trash trees grow first,
grow tall and grow fast
and slow decay feeds
the true forest to come.
Decay must be untended.
We stir, a threat to stall it.
The American republic blurs,
not dying or being born.
The EPA says burn wood for fuel—
the industry needs certainty.
The harvesters, patient at the edge
for the mother trees to rise up.
The fumes smell like desperation,
like the denial of a denial.
The forest means to stand up
like it’s not done being beaten.
Forest Refugia
in the middle of a fire
in a season of records
a change of the wind
like a change of a mind
too massive for intention
too massive to avoid
leaves this green crevice
nudged against a mountain
alive against a mountain
owl and butterfly alive
atop the wetter soil
below the wetter canopy
in the shade of a mountain
