Dementia Two: The Woods Maker

She raises the same problem
Raised by every creative
Destroyer—somewhere between

Asking, How does she do that?
And, Where does she come from then,
If everything came from her?

You’re better at spotting her,
At dreaming that you see her,
Than anyone seems to be.

You’re not that especially
Attentive in life at large,
But you can spot her shoulders

Hunched over a patch of dirt
Anywhere unexpected
And know the woods are coming.

You won’t tell anyone which
Woods these next woods will blossom,
But in your thoughts you can see,

Already, the sinking seeds,
Looking like robot space probes
Compressed to the size of pills

Dropping into blackening
And vanishing away. Gone,
For now, they’ll eat your decay,

Reemerge as slender stems,
Here, out of the way, bolus,
Corm, beginning of the end,

The new forest, a denseness
Fire can’t swallow, blades can’t eat.
Night’s darkness returns as these.