I'd rather fall at the hands of nature—
endure the whiplash from changing seasons,
be ransacked in storms erasing verdure
but not by crude loggers or their reasons.
In time to come, I might be metallic,
slip from imagination, unreal!
What is wood, this leaf, but an italic?
Who will append me to the holy grail,
will to elegize my lost symmetry?
Today has already begun with breeze
lilting foliage; fluttered melody,
transporting berries, bewitching degrees.
A caterpillar licks my face away,
and a worm is canceled by a blue jay.
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