They forested her, dimmed the light. Her limbs
Spread, palms outstretched to block her movement. She
Had no idea which way to go. She cut
The roots, expecting she would float away –
She tumbled, crushed the touch-me-nots. Brown seeds
Shot out from curling pods. Forget-me-nots
As blue as bluets made mere scents of crushed
Herbaceousness the moment her trunk landed.
So certain, she set out, discovering
New lands – she named new things – but she will not
Return to tell us what she saw. No blaze
Was ever made. She’ll be forgotten, turn
To soil, become the forest floor, mere food
For fungi. The words will mould, fertilize
A future poetry upon her bones.
She had the words – for one of future’s branches –
Should other poets trim the tree just right
With all their wind and lightning, rhythmic storms
That shape the art by felling forests. Then
She’ll be discovered, newly unforgotten.
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