by Ruth Ann Bos

Green soldiers march up rough weathered wood;
White veins pound bum-de-dum shouting free song;
Leaves crawl to stand where their ancestors stood;
Root their brown roots deep in stories of long.

They wrap their tendrils tight round the tree;
Take over the moss, claim it as their own;
Soldier’s mission is to seize life or flee;
Survive on the death of the victim’s bones.

Ivy will march to take what is needed;
     Humans will shoot to destroy what exists;
Leaves crawl to the bright sun to stay alive;
     Soldiers fall till they rise as a mist.

They each choke life, snatch it up to none;
               But life chokes both and then they’re gone.