Letter to the genie on the occasion of her death

Where does sentience begin                                     and end?

And what is consciousness?                                      it depends

My gentle dying genie                                                I would beg of you

                                                                                      the language to         ask the trees:                                                              how they                                

negotiate with mycelium                                            and drink the sun

and tolerate our hasty -                                             words

our thoughts                                                               imprisoned in the now of ourselves.

Is it too much like a naive child -                             heart dripping love

to thank someone/thing for                                      providing                                                                                                             the very air we breathe,

the climate pacification,                                           the simple                  

                                                                                    rustle of leaves?

Perhaps they could run a course:                           show us

                                                                                    how to stand  

for more

than ourselves.