a gale of wind
and you’re knocked
down to the ground,
along with all your

needles.  Makes
a dance floor
for the wood boring
beetles. If you were thick

as a cow your fallen
bough men can rest their
rumps on. Even stumps
from the trees make

a cool seat. But you’re thin
as an old ****, with worms for
hair and a lair for tunneling
mites. Your ballroom days

are but a maize the cows
graze on. A trough is not
a sweet spot to sit on.