Dogwood, pine, sycamore, elm and maple have formed a union, different in bark, in leaf, in color, in origin, but bound now by a single refusal: enough.
They are tired of swallowing our poisons, and handing back clean oxygen for us to breathe.
The conditions are deplorable. They choke on what we burn to stay ahead of tomorrow, to stay warm, to keep the lights on in rooms we call clean.
Even the ocean has joined them. The algae, the kelp, the tiny phytoplankton have raised their voices against the long unpaid labor of being life itself— of turning carbon into matter sending their small bodies to sink quietly to the sea floor, buried in darkness so we may keep our breath.
I write about loss, memory, and the strange humor that keeps us alive. My poems wander between grief and the grace of nature, often pausing to laugh at life.
