Well,

I am doing creative things today and don't have time to write about it. I'm hand painting bottles to bottle the ESB beer that we're brewing. I'm working on a chair. I'm doing a hat with really weird yarn. I worked on a poem.

The life cycle of a dead tree

It began by dying, the green
of its life draining quietly
from the roots and tips of limbs.
The birds still came but the leaves
stopped renewing in the spring.

It looked harder and tougher
when dead
than when alive but it wasn’t.
Inside the trunk, decay was busy
working.
Budworms gnawed
within and woodpeckers
worked from without
to destroy the bones
of it all, until one day

it fell, whooshing
through the air past the blue
of sky and the soft petals
of clouds. It fell hard,
groaning into the damp
debris left of leaves and stems
and beetle bodies.

The people hidden within
their winter houses, glancing
from their windows, noticed only
the absence of the limb
the lone blue heron sat on
in the summer, the reach of brown
jutting into the moonlight
at night.

In Spring
when children fly from the house
like small birds
the tree became the ship,
the castle, and the dragon to slay
while the discarded branch
became the sword.

In a hundred years, its dust
will feed the clover.