Beneath clods of soil, overgrown with grass,
roots search like the fingers of hands
that grasp for what’s to be found in the earth.
And so they reach, around and over each other,
blindly groping stones in the penetrated peat.
Tree skin rubs, down deep, in all the dirt beds
that spread across the flesh of the writhing world.
Here and there, this hidden arboreal frottage,
this slow-motion bump and grind screws
wood into wood and growth into growth.
Grafts are opened with the scratch of splinters,
to revel in revealing, to pierce the inner rings,
and then are sealed with a shared ooze of sap.
The forest is an orgy, glacially paced,
that edges with all the time of the world.
About the Poem
This poem was inspired by a letter that's been a matter of attention in the news, invoking images of Aspens turning colors together. It began as an exploration of the interconnectedness of things and would up being mainly about tree sex.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished October 19, 2005.