We name the forest—
trend, pattern, significance—
as though a word could hold
the ache of a single pine
stripped by beetles,
or the birch that bent in last year’s storm
but did not break.

Fixed on the canopy,
we miss the wounded trunk oozing sap,
the absence of bird song/cicada buzz,
the forest floor exhausted and hostile.

Data tells us what we already wanted to hear:
Society is healthy.
But our kids are dying quietly,
one dream, one dream, one dream
at a time.