Fingers

the spruce tips aren't tips anymore; 
are fingers with bones and a 
tired hand– this pays the price 
of experience, becoming the one

who butters children's toast
in the morning as if 
it's something she won't miss 
when autumn robs the soft caress

of their unending, cloying need
from off your face and the sun
of relief proves to be 
a colder wind, indeed.

An empty nest flaunts promise
of another spring until
you find the edges rot
and ragged; who was here

when I was not–? and are they
stronger, still, than the drying
heat of a stand in the wood
denying the sweet kiss of rain

for the hungrier bane of a 
forest's existence: the urge to
build houses from a Master's
division of your assets from

the common ground we
graze our cows upon until
you tell us we haven't the
right to–

choosing instead the pain
of you pretending not 
to kill us. 

This group knows a different
reason for becoming, here,
the outcome of the winter 

solstice– not to rise but
to creep beneath the cover
of my skin with the bubbling
breath of sap recalls the

tenderness of you(th).

Fell me if you can and let me
leave your carpenters surprised
by the scent of my snuck kisses;

embrace my column
of towering strength,
but not before you count
the knots that stare like

eyes from out the travesty
of crossbeams– expect to
hold more than their passing
of as many days you waste
counting out your acres;

I am underground
and far beneath the sky
you worship as if
it were any but
the mirror; look at
my face and tell me

I am any but the chosen
feat of animal lust and
the crushing flesh it

took to make 
the very ground
you walk on.