The trees are flesh made.

 Gauntly etched to form gangrenous limbs,

Skeletal fingers lacing outward

For the heavens.

Nails,

A multiplicity of fungal greens

That curl and sway about the breeze.

The trees are flesh made,

Blood racing within barcomulch veins

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Aspen grove
Separate trunks
Thrust skyward
Shaking golden leaves
Whispering tambourines
I cannot see the forest
For this tree

Separate bodies
Milling about
Shaking hands
Whispering gossip
I no longer see the selves
For this humanity

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