in the trees, hung from a pine
the rope and plank, above the root 
you kick to push, this same one 
causes you to tuck
your feet up, if you’ve got 
someone behind you.

the wheel rolls back here
until time grants traction
speak enough of you, no more
push against the root, and lift.

pine beetle and winter kill
time and sickness, broken
at the heart, kicking skyward
no other body, other mind
here just a soul flickering
blue green, barkless 
resin sparks and pops.

you have a choice. charcoal
fill the hole, or wait
for a mossy pool, not tears
just years of rain shattering
illusions that tiny significance
is less eternal than any other.

there you are, at my back
after all, that’s true.