The Garden of Wood by Jeanne Larsen

Is not built
of thick trunks & board-feet.

It yields. Or fractures.
It’s a cavern of shadow,

luminous brown, chestnut
or oak, mahogany

red. It rots
into itself. Can be made

orderly. Yet prefers its own
stories: canopy, under

layer, roots coiled like fiddleheads.
It tends other gardens

with shreds of its skin.
Its secret is bending, is also

refusal to bend.

thoughts?

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