Walking Through the Woods

The old elm has a hole right through it,
big enough, I squeeze in
and out the other side,
like being born.

Branches, still green above,
sway mildly in the breeze;
they will thrash against the storms
when they come.

I know this shall be its ruin,
this hollow heart, this rigid stand,
but the tree will never know.

It does not see this gaping cut
slashed through its crumbling heartwood;
nor see the piled corpses
cast about all about, brethren of the wood,
long collapsed, to the dirt, the worms.
It does not see its certain doom.

But I crawl through just the same,
together with summer breeze and sun;
like being born.