Deadwood

Stark, gaunt, damaged, dry,

Crooked branch that once reached high,

Missing from the papery sky,

Blight upon the perfect eye.

Good thing it didn't block the way.

No place for deadwood as we play

Our high-speed games, but it's okay.

It's out of sight so it can stay.

Downed amidst the dirt and dross

The bough is sprouting mats of moss,

Filaments as fine as floss,

Breaking down the hulk of loss.

Sterile tarmac melts and breaks,

Diverted traffic swells and snakes

Through thirsty parks, past slimy lakes —

Clear the deadwood in case it takes.

Hack back the ferns, remove the thorn,

Rip up the shaggy, emerald lawn,

Mankind will ever be forlorn

For lack of understanding.

This piece was inspired by a podcast that featured a garden in summer, where birds, ants and all sorts of other invisible creatures were found to be inhabiting a dead tree.