by Lindsay C. Sidders

A swaying birch in a forest

crowded, groundless, rooted

shades of living green like descendants
brown flayed cones,
babababababaspread wave stretch
flowers prompted by flame
wings, antennae—one track minds

no one sees her; they wither, they die standing up straight

the mourning wails at dusk
wind through decayed trunks

the birch sighs

unknown shapes, hollows, angles
babababababasunset and moon-lit:

Time’s memoir of thick loneliness.
she longs for a birch-skin embrace: we claw at her
babababababawith clean fingernails.