It is not true. Look, the world offers you

a dozen truths hiding in the storm clouds of a thousand lies

What can you believe when trust is treading water

and sea grass rises like ribbons of death to pull you under?

I’ve heard all the latest conspiracies

the hushed whispers under willow, under oak

Still I know that sometimes trees become boats

floating on dark waters, still trees, only more

Buoyant, unfixed from their roots with a little wind

Here, a truth unspoken, call it first secret, forest known

Only to those who wash ashore to wake in its green

We make the forests with the seeds we drop

The only real seeds left:

handfuls of acorns, all of your memories, footprints