You uproot the browning trees,
anger at the kidnapping of Persephone,
anger that everything grows.
Lightning flashing from your eyes
could be better used to raise Lazerus
or even a stitched together monster.
Better used to rake the dead into a pile
to jump into and feel the prickles of leaf wafers
crackling into your cranium.
Better to grab a handful of the intruding grass
and play God to the ants.
Run your pencil fingers
down the spine of a shady nymph,
who is losing her hair with every passing day
and wish she could spring to life
or uproot the dead.
She's wrinkled, sure,
and burned from the sun,
but she is smiling still
as you rip her arms off her body.
Remember the dust
from crushed leaves.
and inhaled by all.