My mom says it smells like tree-death outside today.
An oak falls in the neighbor’s backyard,
I open my bedroom window and breathe in its suicide.
If trees had eyes they would be soft brown
like chocolate left sitting by a fire.
I think sometimes trees see too much.
Plastic. My hands are plastic
and my house reeks of lavender incense.
We burn what burns well.
The oak outside my window has started
melting into the ground, its chocolate eyes
looking out at me as if from my old dog’s skull
and I’m reminded of an animal
that doesn’t know death exists.
I hope my death smells like pine needles.
Nature is found in candles these days.
I bought one called “Autumn Glow”
and only light it in the summer.
I hope you understand where
I’m coming from when I say
that oak hasn’t left me,
but I’ve never found a candle
and wouldn’t burn it
even if I did.