The moss appeared that autumn
on both sides of stones,
the fallen leaves grown green again,
the bones reborn.

An apple on my desk
took root, drew sustenance
from books I’d never read.

Overnight a grove sprang up.

Therein I spotted portents,
heard migratory birds
roll loose and lost
across the skies.

Here, the trees died, toppled
in the winds or held their leaves,
I felled my birch—
the purling squirrels
scowling down—and spruce
for firewood,
a shabby cord to sell.

But in the shed
kept slabs of tunneled bark
where worms had bored.

Night fell, but I, I rose.

—Matthew Chamberlin