The suburban horizon dotted with tall
mountains, this land will never see.
Only the trees are to be trusted,
the trees are to be believed,
with stories you and I will think of,
and write down and bury
under a sheaf of bills and spreadsheets.
Stories like magic,
where buildings become canopies and grow leaves,
where you and I meet, under cover of green,
nakedness and bare feet,
fall over fallen flowers, and the smell rises
from our moist bodies.
This would be our creation story,
written with and all over our bodies.
The story of bodies,
the story of trees,
stretched out like history,
as we are cut or burned or buried.
