I take little note of the seedlings
that burst from the forest floor
and grow in bits of ragged sunlight —
young herds of tender saplings.
If they could talk
I‘d imagine them mongering
with an unruly grace, howling
at their games, grubbing
for root space —
leaning on each other.
They will die in the shade
of the aged ones
on a day when you do not notice.
*For Jean and Chris, in memorium.