delicate moths wish
to kiss
your oxygen-eating fingers,
as you gently consume
sun-dried limbs
of monster-trees.
your dear children,
born of the plant flesh
you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.
should one of your young
dare to tiptoe
on brittle blades
of winter-deceased grass,
she will grow
more impressively
than you,
her mother.
she will indulge
in tender gluttony,
softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.
conceived of woodpecker houses,
her own daughters
enter the world,
spread their mother's warmth,
just as your sweet baby
did with yours.
and forever you burn.
