Somewhere in this deep green,
creeks run, fringed with moss.
Water falls from broken rock.
Ancient trees,
their first names
passed from memory.
Bladed leaves etched
in stone, fossicked over
like cracked, bleached bones.
Shoots grow into trunks
pebbled with dark bark.
Trees rise, stretching
their arms to the clouds.
Sharp-tipped cones. Winged
seeds. Listen: pollen dusts our ears.