Like wet snow clinging,
White fungus clings
To black tree bark,
Taking life from death
Until it has
The tree consumed.
The tree, in death,
Bears foreign fruit,
Like a dead poet’s rhymes
Bearing foreign word fruit;
Nourishing new, consuming spirits
Of later generations:
Life for barren souls
Eager to consume.


Cy, Wed., Nov. 22, 2006