Anastasia Voight
Texas, USA
The wood wound path’s detritus
is smirched with green-grit flotsam. As our steps disturb the verdant dust, even the newest jetsam
is chalked with chartreuse lust.
Such delicto flagrante would disgust if done by most any other.
But a tree is a dissembling lover. No love-thrust, no convulsed spatter betrays arborous ardor.
Only wind-shiver stirs spring cones in carnal quiver.