There is tottering tripping slipping skidding sliding slithering
stumbling slewing spilling
there is tumbling tossing plummeting plunging plopping pitching
dipping diving dropping.
when a tree, with a girth greater than a caravel’s guts
with a head of branches whose leaves could tickle the bellies of clouds
with roots that stealthily crept along the great labyrinths of Thoth
displacing dislocating dislodging the balance of the universe
like a child tipping over his classmate’s desk
spilling the ink and breaking the well so to
steal all his sage and wonderful scrolls
by osmosis, photosynthesis
by trick, enchantment
by sleight of hand
sending magic jiggly jig into the cambium bark and green cells
to thrive to live to be to grow until The Tree was all.
If The Tree was chopped sawed cut and blasted
Gnawed ignored desiccated debilitated
how dark then, the hole, how deep the wound
in the crust the mantle the outer and inner core?
If all the green sweet things now in mourning went dark
blew themselves into stratospheric dust
to fall as smudgy rain or weird snow or rocks of hail
the black would be The Blackest so that
no soul would ever see the light of any day
and no book, no page, no tome nor scroll could hold a word to stop
the Fall of Man.