Sitting atop a hill,
A former tree,
A former flora,
Fallen all by itself.
Roots no longer intact.
Roots never quite exact.
Separated and picked to bits of nothing by
Who had just come from a long day of
Sitting in cautious rows,
Upon subtle wires,
Like a dozen magicians.
Casting a dozen spells.
Upon the heads of so many,
So that these purveyors of so many different surveys,
That all seem to do different tired jobs,
At various, tired volumes.
Whose only reprieve is achieved when temporarily resting
Under the shadow of the petrified overpass.
But only for a moment,
These monoliths are often at an impasse, themselves.
They spend so much time soliciting flyers under these
And hiding from various vultures who haunt those same
Now with this blessing,
From the stale roots of this disembarked tree,
They mayjust have the slightest chance at
Withstanding the everyday onslaught of fungus
And the ferocity of a flat tire,
And the calculating verbosity of telekinetic telemarketers.
While still being able to exist in their favored state of perpetual fragility.
All this expiration,
All this mediation.
From a fallen tree,
For a fallen tree.
That is already
And easily will
Be so much more,
Than a tree.
The story of the uprooting,
And subsequent displacement,
Of this adult splinter,
Disjointed from the earth
With no help from the jagged jaws
Of the serrated saws,
That swiftly travel through forests,
Hungry for timber,
Vehemently separating limb from life.
Leaving only leaves in its wake,
But still providing four sturdy legs,
For a future chair.
And after deforestation,
They bounce about the textured dreams of the woodsmen that wield them,
Like recently forged swords,
Like lost musical notes,
Reluctantly narrating kaleidoscope cartoons.
This is the origin of firewood.
This is the birth of a glow.
This fallen tree,
Once a literal thorn in the side of a mountain,
Now a drop in a bucket.
(A bucket that stands behind the crowd, awaiting instruction)
Is tossed onto some expensive blanket of charcoal,
With some uncomfortable newspaper clippings,
Who are undeserving of this same fate,
Surrounded by glossy expensive stones,
Stacked high enough
Painted brightly enough
To sustain general fireside aesthetics.
And quiet the fireside critics.
With immolation now moments away,
This previous tree has now become an offering,
Like the deceased village witch.
And like the martyred witch,
The eventual firewood will live on forever
Dancing well into the night,
In splendid ribbons of smoke,
Gradually graduating to
Inevitable cloud status,
Forgoing both posture
For a life of thunderstorms.
For a causal life.
For a casual life.
While candidly watching absolutely everything,
Almost sleepwalking through the sky,
In a trance.
A trance so requisite,
A trance so exquisite,
It borders on obsolete.