a moss began to coat my throat

layers, layers, layers

of yellow needles

it grew out of my center

like a catching virus for trees

sprouts sent out tiny shoots of feeling

tendrils

 

collected on my chest

my shoulders

accepted the weight

of saplings

 

I did not protest becoming a forest

though I might have made

a better meadow

though I might have liked

to wear a river

across my hip like a sash

I let the canopy of leaves

cover my eyes like a veil

 

how many others have worn this forest

like a shabby fur coat?

 

how many other forests

have taken root

in the soul of a wanderer?

 

my blood slows like sap

when I am deep in dark mud

I worry the swamp

is inching toward my toes

vines and skunkweed

twining up my ankles

 

I am only ground

only grounded

only a passive gardener

allowing weeds in a turnip patch

 

my flesh feeds sanguine trees

maples nursing like thirsty giants

mushrooms pick at the cartilage

take it, take the sallow skin

I will not deny the worms

the soil takes me in with

sloppy embraces

 

so slowly, so slowly

I dissolve into

the earth