Flushed with cold, 
but it hasn't gotten old, lying on this log, 
as big around as the face of that clock 
from that English city with all the fog. 
A dead tree the size of a medical fee, 
these castles climbing 
        around me, 
breathing out a scent so irradiant, so conflagrant - 
   And then the wind! It rattles off a gust, and I simply 
                must 
                    smile. 
        I haven't felt this way in a while. 

I move my toes, which are enclosed 
in boots of Italian leather. 
Now, whether they are particularly new 
is, well, untrue, 
the Goodwill pair acquired at the reasonable fare of
        ten dollars. 
They're a long way from home, 
but now they've seen this ardent corner of the great blue dome; 
        like me. 

And through the leaves, infamous CO2
thieves, a fractured blaze hangs, 
wafting through the tree's bangs, 
floating, suspended, like puppet strings - 
or maybe those things 
that hang around nurseries,
as prominent as inquiries, 
        after someone familiar. 

Then, as the light shimmered, 
a darker thought began to glimmer. 
I look around; my heart felt dimmer. 
Those trees, First and Last, 
but not if they were all turned 
        to ash. 
I look up, craning my neck 
to see the upmost sect 
of those living pieces of history. 
I'd hate to see them blistering. 

And the terrible thing is, 
I may never see them again. 
That grove may join 
the droves that have withered 
        in flames; 
destruction is never quite the same. 
I hear my sister clowning around, in truth a very lovely sound, one
I hold very close to my heart. 
It really does tear me apart, 
that this may be the only part of these fantastic giants
before they die and 
        fade 
that she will get to say she 
        saw.

Then my Italian boots, 
    Second hand, nudging against
        pipeline roots.
It makes me laugh because 
I may only be the second 
        half 
of a different story. 
It doesn't bore me. 
I wear them when I exit, 
off to the next hit 
of a Pacific-Northwest travel bit, but my borrowed coat will 
smell like unadulterated life; 
for a little while, 
at least.