Metabolism consumes the wood, tree, mountain, slope.
Breath is the smoke of their togetherness.
Where can I rest myself?
Surrounded by the slow, wooden eaters of time.
Heated cedar smells sweeter than bread.
Our hearth devours the cold of separation.
Built around it are the grey boards of house.
The tree knits into the earth to hold a mountain in place.
A leaf rises from the petrified core.
So many to occupy the bald, everlasting slope,
I think I'll pause to press one into a book.