Tree
Starved of light or water—
fungus-rot eating it like a cancer
from the inside out—even the giant
sequoia will topple one day. This shore pine
done in by the fury
of winter as I listened to wind that gusted
heaving waves over the Pacific.
All night that sea-power
shuddered and thumped. The tree
did not surrender
one branch at a time; an entire body
collapsed—trunk and limbs
clinging to roots that connected it
to earth. Now it waits for chainsaw
and cremation. The ground beneath the
fallen piney crown is soft and sodden;
the air still, silent. Yesterday a house
of branches grew outside my window.
Now, the hollow where life uprooted itself
yawns like a mouth without a voice.
There’s a hole in the landscape, phantom
emptiness against the sky.
Latest posts by sundresspublications (see all)
- We Call Upon the Author to Explain—Timothy Geiger - May 4, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Apostasies by Holli Carrell - May 4, 2026
- Project Bookshelf: Rachel Bulman - May 1, 2026



