Standing conifers
girdle them down
to recumbent silence,
their eyes-formed-plates
laterally diminishing in eighths,
They wait cross legged,
sheltered by palms of rock
and shattered limbs of lost parts,
their minds slowly wandering,
wrapping up the sky and up
to rest in sky
They are dreaming of singing,
dancing so
loudly
in the cold and new night,
If you are worn,
take musk upon your hands
and onto moss-ridden stones throw
upon yourself the swell and
look,
it is large and empty,
a disruption of rock breaking in the air
It is:
root splits stone
twining dirt into
valley covering,
splitting pine into pine
and path into path,
cutting and wandering
by the foot,
A microcosm but repeating itself repeating
itself,
Disrupted, and if upside down,
falling into sky.