Lost gods also wander

It is impossible to calculate
the angle of a tree. Each moment
shifts it with the wind or
the exhale of earth. The ground

itself is sinking so what
will become of the woodland. Look,
just there your garden
is building. Now,

yes now, it is empty, but
it won't stay that blank-page for long.
Just like the snowfall
purity of a wide-open wordless book,

the open landscape is subject
to the flourish of passing things. And
if you don't believe a bird
can carry a tree, you have not been

listening to his song. Listen. He
is arrowing over, sheathed music
near to cresting
its containment; ready to soar to you:    you

standing empty, aimless. Look,
here he comes - beak full of the future.
Ready to drop suitcases
of willow and watch roots swell

below raw ground as they may. So what
will you do. Be the deus ex machina /
or stand back: a lost god
among your own imagined gardens

and let the magnificence
of the automatic,
the pilgrimage of every living thing
wash over you like a river

rising from ground