Earthspun

Krista Hoeppner Leahy

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.

 

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