Rotting hulk,
thick and heavy at forty degrees,
perturbing three living trees,
still standing,
reaching for your sun space.

You couldn't even die well,
had to hurt as you fell,
claiming support from those who couldn't deny you,
denying the greedy molds of earth,
if only for awhile,
as counted by greedy molds.

Slowly softening anyhow,
absorbing the punishment of wind, rain, and sun,
and insects,
and woodpeckers.

Fading, rotting anyhow,
bit still proclaiming the strength of carbon chains,
still connecting three trees that would otherwise be mere competitors.
Still showing the art of creation,
bearing witness despite yourself,
and beyond your motives or intentions.
Just being into becoming anyhow.
Just possibility beyond your knowing.

Pat Conover
April, 2008