Feeding on the Dead
There is no telling how long
the tree has lain there.
Its birchbark has separated from the trunk
and there is rot underneath.
The bark itself is pristine,
mystical and white, a cradle for living things
that feed off of the dead,
fungus and moss.
Tiny green plants, voracious and sun-seeking,
rise. their roots deep in the soft carcass.
You sit in the sun, seeking inspiration
for a life long broken, recently repaired,
a muddler, trying to reach through to the sun,
feeding on the dead,
the parts that remained after the slow attempts
at murder that failed,
but just barely.
A chuckle rises at the irony
of life from the dead,
corpses made beautiful ,
again and again and always, again.
About this poem
The dead parts of our life rot away. We can rot away with them, or rise from them.
According to Grammarly. I only mangled the English language 9 times in this poem. That’s about par for the course for me. Some days I love being a poet.
The picture was taken at a nearby nature reserve.