Here we are among snow
and ash. Cracked from saw or
harsh November winds. We
are wood always moving. Bit
of flesh from birch, oak, cedar.
Stacked for burning. Once I was
home to a little ant, he swallowed
my bones. Built a little city. More
crawled in. They made me warm
in winter. Little curling
creatures. I said, soak more
from soil, make each splinter
firmer. My god we grow. Leaves
arrived fat, cradling bubbling
dew. I tell you I know what it is
to be a universe. Tonight leaves
turning ash first reach for sky then
they fall and they fall. To be
turned into nothing.
Oisín Rowe (they/them) is a trans and disabled writer, editor, and poet. Their work has appeared in Massachusetts Review, Flare Magazine, Black Fox Literary Review, and elsewhere. You can find links and more at www.oisinrowe.com
This poem previously appeared in perhappened.