sucks pondwater through her pores.
Sunfish swim below
between muck and sky.
Each day stones cry out,
You have taken our light,
shaded the sun
and sometimes in summer,
they carve names on themselves,
hoping for her recognition.
The sunfish cannot read the writing
and dart just above
when a green heron wades
among sweet flag, stops,
folds one leg to imitate
a standing branch, and waits,
My mother lowers her trunk
a needle-width deeper each day.
She wants to stop branches
from clawing at sky.
and to feel roots unclench,
She wants bark, phloem,
xylem to fall away,
disintegrate
She does not care
about fishes or stones
and long ago forgot
the purpose of names.
