Tree

The heartwood has been eaten by worms
into a kind of honeycomb,
which we harvest and bring home,
for some aesthetic.
Later, on a long run,
I notice many trees
in varying states of decay,
victims of neat woodpecker holes,
mushrooms fanning from moist clefts,
an excess of moisture at their roots,
(probably, as my neighbor complains,
from unchecked development and new runoff),
bark bursting from black molds,
some down from the early snow this year,
a few even felled by their fellows.
But they don't complain,
they just creak and crack,
squeak in the wind at night
when they rub together.
They watch me as I run by,
more slowly these days.