Here we are among snow and ash. Cracked from saw or harsh November winds. We are wood always moving. Bit of flesh from birch, oak, cedar. Stacked for burning. Once I was home to a little ant, he swallowed my bones. Built a little city. More crawled in. They made me warm in winter. Little curling creatures. I said, soak more from soil, make each splinter firmer. My God we grow. Leaves arrived fat, cradling bubbling dew. I tell you I know what it is to be a universe. Tonight leaves turning ash first reach for sky then they fall and they fall. To be turned into nothing.
Elisa Rowe (she/her) is a neurodivergent immigrant, writer, educator, and poet. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Michigan Quarterly Review, Sledgehammer Literary Journal, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @elisacwrites.