Wearing a fading shirt at teahouse by the lake.
Hotness of the afternoon shimmers on glassy
watery face of bondless sea.
I’ve walked under shades of groves, watching spear
grasses guarding the walkway.

Madam X, the store owner, curses the lumberman,
and the blade cutting through the forest.
Foaming like hurricane she yells in a tantrum.
”The future of Wood Peckers unhatched
is at mercy of lumberman saws.”

I once flipped through old pages in a secondhand
bookstore and noticed moth followed trees from
forest to stores staining pages of old books.

I flip through things a lot, am guilty of leaving
behind memories of my roots, somewhere,
sometimes in a life that’s like another’s.
Memory follows me too, with chain saws.