There are trees toppled by the wind,
pulled up by the roots, creating
wide open gashes in the forest floor.
The pit in the ground is rimmed
with broken mycorrhizae, waiting
to connect to roots once more.
The fungal networks are vast, not sturdy, they crawl through the dirt looking for an anchor.
In the future when the logs decay
water and weeds will clot the wounds,
but landslides infest my dreams,
and topsoil split and eroding away
into chasms that open up and bloom
as the forest is pulled apart at the seams.
I feel the ground moving under my feet and I imagine it swallowing the woods whole. Here the trees stand in perfect rows, roots pushing up against concrete.
Dandelions and clover still grow
between the cracks on the sidewalk.
One day they’ll be gone to.
I’ve never been good at letting go,
but one day we lose our grip on the rock,
it’s hard to hold on when there's nothing to hold on to.
Everything we’ve buried will be unearthed, I envy the way moss grows without roots.