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.