When trees are down lift them
up. Bench press them skyward
and smile. Generate an income
on thoughts and prayers and
sweat and tears. When trees
are down, lift them up. Re-root
them in the manure of your life.
That shit has to be good for some
thing. Wish for cash to grow like
needles, pluckable and evergreen,
currency prompted by a nine-year
-old in a blue dress with her head
on your shoulder. She is working
for pennies and if you produce,
you earn. Make space for the veins
of the tree in the earth, water
what would have been a grave
collect thoughts and prayers,
feed them to the soil. More shit
never hurt a felled tree, secret wish.