Trees, grown together, tightly knit,
so if one moved, they all followed
and became a mob, all swallowed by desire
and sired by the exegetic earth.
Ah, the birth of such rebellion,
such hellions – the trees – that move
like fingers reproving, reaching toward Heaven,
though their leaves, like unleavened bread, are brittle.
In their dying state, they wish to belittle the face of God,
to break through the façade he presents,
but these dissenters only grasp
toward the gown of God with feckless hands.
He doesn’t understand their outcries;
these trees, baptized by rain, have forsaken Him.
As they attempt to bind Him with sunlight
for every unsightly crime, the sky darkens.
Hearken: the thunder crashes with frustrated fury
as all living things serve as jury in this trial.
Goodly God, now hostile, sends the storm
deforming a child’s chalk-drawing – now a pastel-colored mess.