How Old Am I? by Mike Bullock
Charred pine.
Broiled redwood.
Bark, bitten off and bruised.
Tree rings weep for
their ash on skin.
A scolding furnace of smoke and sap.
Then
a blade for the logs,
lumber, lovers,
tree huggers with burning limbs.
An axe, a saw, a scalpel.
Peel away the embers,
the splinters,
the singed nerves,
find that glowing organ,
the hardwood heart.
The spiral flood of shelter and warmth.
Air in the punctured lung.
Blood under burning bark,
next to the rotting stumps.