Weathering Winter

Heather Carnaghan

These woods
are full of death
of fallen oaks
and ungrown seeds,
those miscarriages of the earth.

Decaying trunks
one hundred rings thick
are strewn across the mossy floor.

I sit on ancestors
and wonder how many
have fallen before.

Does the Earth mourn
the crushed sapling
or the masticated seed?

Does her molten core
break like mine
when blight strikes
the new growth?

Could my single tear 
be the definitive drop
a thirsty leaf
needs to weather the desolate winter?