A curvy-topsy tornado funneled up, not down
uprooting the sky-trees from the cumulus-sea-above
dumping them on the ground where they are all
dying from lack of clouds and too much media attention.
Greenpeace has converted several transport slings
designed for beached whales but the sky-trees keep
falling through the canvas no matter how much
water the volunteers eye-drop onto gravity-bitten bark.
Several have melted completely into the ground
leaving behind no trace but an ineffable sense of loss
nearby if you’re walking barefoot, with or without an Iphone.
Some, arboreally brave, linger even as they disintegrate—
branches split, leaves torn, roots weeping past reflection
puddles that do not splash as more volunteers march toward
the storm, unaware of limbs and leaves permanently earthed.
The worms try to help. Sniff a cirrus frond, they urge, lick a bog
of too-blue sap, finger cerulean bark. Breathe thru your cloaca.
There is no app to map a sky-fallen forest. Choose: Empty
urns into sky-plashets or self-immolate. What? Ashes cry
the worms, water them with ashes so their sap may rise, fly.
All of us belong to the sky.