by Maria Berardi

Huge trunk of tree tripped over river,
a giant’s foot rooted amidst pandemonium.

My foot resting gingerly among its snarls,
my body hovers over water bombing past,

a hundred tiny oceans foment,
unknown grottoes and springs among the roots.

Just at the very edge of this monument, right over water,
lichen and moss–farms are setting up shop,

they are mindless, or they’d know that’s not very bright,
this is temporary, it all is,

the mighty hundreds of years, for the fallen tree,
the next perhaps quarter-century for this tree trunk penninsula,

the moss, who knows?
Who knows? for me.