A Weakness for the Awkward

There’s a forest can’t be turned
To logs. It’s not a forest.

It’s the metaphor machine
First dreamed it was a forest,

And a dragon slept in it,
And a monster guarded it.

Outside, the woods are dead logs
And planks and stumps and ashes.

There’s no endurance in them,
That real world with its weakness

For the awkward, its habit
Of fracturing and falling

Apart. But after physics
And before nothing at all,

This forest sings to itself
How nothing will cut it down.