DRY CRIK Journal

The industriousness of insects
seems least changed by the news
that no tree grows to the sky –

            the hollow reach of limbs
            collapsed on fences, even
            the old oaks have succumbed
            to gravity, feet tangled
            with cordwood, amputated
            reminders of too much.

Time brings us to our knees
once again for a closer look –

            my father’s crawl
            across ten acres,
            jubilant to discover
            the melon vines
            my brother planted.

It’s where we go for solace,
for proof of the hereafter,
for a future without our genius
demanding shape and space –

where a troop of ants can erase
our track in the dirt, packing
sacks of seeds somewhere
underground, overnight.