A younger tree stands pert and upright
against the setting sun
on an April afternoon of little consequence–
to anyone other than perhaps
the octahedral chainsmokers out there, but that’s
a conversation for another time and place, m’friend.
The bud-tipped nerve endings are raw,
eager for a consistent warmth to figure itself out.
The trees all know
what they’ve gotten themselves into these days,
after noticing all the human affectations
popping up around them
again.
The existential rigamarole isn’t lost on them,
believe me. They know
that we only keep them around
for their oxygen supply, isn’t that obvious?
If we could find a cheaper or more efficient way
to convert a global supply of carbon dioxide
into breathable oxygen,
we would drop everything
and jettison all those woody worriers
into space, where they could become
petrified ornaments, immaculate baubles
showcased in an ever-expanding curio cabinet.
The details on such a plan
have never been made clear, since
it’s likely never to happen.
Lucky bastard trees.
You too, shrubs. I’m watching you.
WHARVED 