Katrina Kaye

Our crowns lost their jewels
in the last days of October,
scattering red and gold
from heaven to earth
and everywhere in between.

But our heartwood out measures
the sapwood by multitude,
and our trunks have become stable
thick and knotted around midrib.

No longer lean or smooth,

            but sturdy

tough skinned,
holding the nicks and gnashes
of more passing seasons,

the bleaching of the sun,
and the freezing of tips.

The canopies we bloomed
to shade our earth have become
thinner and thinner each year:
patchy,

holes of sunlight break through,

We have become womb to wildlife.
We hold the nest safe
from the reach of prey,
and though our skin may be marked,
tattooed, stretched,
though they contain wounds and rot,
so much more than rind remains.

We remain.

We are not
pathetic creatures,
even if we no longer have
the pliable limbs of our youth

and our leaves no longer
reflourish in the spring.

There is no weakness here
and the twisting to roots
that tangle like serpents
after their own tails and limbs
contorted by patches of decay
create a display of ancient brilliance.

We are true and long lived and wise.
We are radiant.

“The Forest” is previously published in Kelp Journal (2024).