The Trees Are Singing

You aren’t out of the woods, yet,
Nor will you ever leave them.
You’ll leave by burning with them.

You are your woods. You are them,
But you’re not the whole of them,
Just one self-conscious system

Woven through the twigs of them
From whatever words blew in,
As if birds were fungal spores

And leaves infected by them,
Singing wings on every stem,
Singing a fused existence.