The forest has infinite hands
All of them lazy
All of them reaching
For the nearest star
But their wooden arms are sluggish
Their arms bend with the days
And though their bodies grow tall
Turning water and light into wood
Architects building themselves Inch by inch
Guided by blueprints they found in their seeds
They never quite reach the star
(Really, never coming close)
Perhaps understanding
It would make them burn
So they relax their campaign
And let squirrels move in
Ya’know, I would readily pay for these brief prose in hard copy, assuming the collection were to reach that size.