Reproduction is movement
For trees—reproduction is
How the woods move. Otherwise,
They only die or regrow.
The nuts and seeds, though, the blooms,
They can really move, and do.
Poems, too. If words were pollen,
Lines would be seeds and poems fruits
Or at least wind-blown cotton
Infected with worms and grubs
But sometimes still capable
Of seeding new waves of woods.
If life itself could suffer
As lives do, life would grow old,
But life just renews and moves.