I.

She is held by long arms of vines,
belted by dark flowers:
a living column surrounded by broken maples,
shadowed willows,
and daisies of ink.

She is still as stone
and whispers like rain,
soft and wet syllables beneath gray skies.
Many creatures hear the noise;
few listen to the words.

Help, she cries.

II.

They come, at last,
to save the forest.

But she still stands,
toes rooted deep in the dirt,
her bark unmarred,

and they cannot see
the rot within.