Charles Jensen | Writer

Take your skin to the trees. Where leaves remain wet and sour
there is no hope. Where a tree has fallen silent, make no sound.

Provide for the woods. The day has no hours
with sallow gray light all the same, and so time ends. The day ends. The world shifts into night

pathetically, beaten and insincere. The trees will never see themselves
the way you have. For this, they will never be mistaken.