Poem #23

Time, essence, vaporous in life and death,
allows many legged larvae to welcome
in spring, steps in hollow trunks and reseeds.

Moss spills across the leveled log in spots,
a paint coat over rivulets of harsh
winter filaments that chisel and etch.

Names and hearts bind, fuse all these cylinders
in some handgrip that flashes a mirage,
that each log’s world is a precious cargo.

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