Overgrowth

There are dim pockets in the woods, quiet places. Tree bark coursing with ants, crumbling branches, dark and humid. There's an allure to their stillness, unmistakable smell. Organic residue and soft ground.

Forests tolerate them for years, decades - sites of latent resurrection. In the meantime they are mapped by those within.

Eerily calm as they writhe, toil. Decay is a series of cliffs, sudden breaks into canyons.

Undergrowth

I want to trace the line, electric. With another sense, myopic. There is a net, a flow, resilience, springy with the strength of life. Wily, clever little lines.

Can you build an essay this way, a poem? Should I dig up the supports? Less a maze, perhaps a village-turned-city-turned-upside-down. I don't know if time is cyclic, but matter has many methods of rebirth.

Scale visits this dwelling, then turns away. Moonless, sunless, vestiges appear and fade. A striving, certain.

Canopy

Illusion of breath, spaces between spaces / species. Thin workhorse, leafvein transporting pristine light. Lithe bend of top branch, far-reaching spirals.

It seems we have conquered death into dainty blooms. Suffocating green film. Maximize capture, minimize competition.

It is, again, mathematics, or some theory of it.