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.
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.