pot of gold


Pots of gold mark the places

where trees, undaunted

by their world’s enmity,

choose to bury the hatchet.

Stripped of their wares,

pirated and split into

planks which dead men walk,

they lay their treasures

at our feet, bowing

to our superiority.


Let Nature Speak



Let Nature speak –

in syllables untypable,

nuances not uttered in

words so much as living

letters which etch life into the

living. Let Nature

write –  phrases

one breeze-breadth

long, one sunset soliloquy

wide, one pollen-laced

paragraph high.

She prints her poem

onto recycled papyrus,

onto hearts grown green –

who will read it to our

children? Who will

translate her manuscript

without editing out her soul?