If I could, I would turn books
back into trees and free oxygen
from all those pent up words.
The veins of leaves would trace
faint poetry of chlorophyll and
render it as prayers to the sun.
While rain would whisper bible
lessons in the ears of nesting birds
who might whistle new epistles.
On the wind, seed pods of sacrament
could be scattered like a sermon
on a mount no longer barren.
There will always be some stony ground
where I could gather rocks and scratch
more curses to throw hard at your head.
But I would rather read the bark
of forests, when green ink of auditors
could confirm it all adds up.
