Written by Michelle Rochniak
Art by Michael Reichelt
you will be plucked from the forest one day: arid wind
slicing your stem.
you will bleed water;
the greedy air will swipe this, too.
you will gasp from the grass, waiting for a warm hand
or even fire,
but no one comes.
it’s just you and the air,
destined to create a stiff, stale stem.
what’s an abandoned fungus to do?
your limbless siblings are five feet away.
what if we had branches, you muse—
distracting yourself from the thrashing breeze.
I wonder if the trees would talk to us more.
maybe we would know more of their words;
maybe they would love us.
what do you think? you call out to the sky.
no one answers.