A scrappy sweep of leaves

I’ve trodden through - 

A path which reads

My footprints sunk

In sodden ground - 

A broken opening through

Undergrowth, where

Only I have trekked -

What trees I’ve passed 

Beneath! What meadows

Graced by foot?

Has the path meant

Anything so far?

I gaze into that

Foggy copse that calls

Me forward.

Will I find my way?

Do treasures before me

Lay in undiscovered 

Vales, unthought, undreamt?

To be?

The thrill of screens -

The scrolling cast of

Characters in greens

And blues and scarlets

Flash and key our 

Focus away from leaves.

Or needles. Or the

Hard-grown, textured bark

And bit of anything 

Without a pixel count.

Should we neglect the veined

Miracle of Photosynthetic

Energies from light, the very

Substance of our bodies?

Even as our potted plants

Disintegrate on the sill,

Sans water, sacrificed for our

Synthetic, gigabit/day flow?

That flow will not feed us.

Will not thrive our people.

Will wall us off from 

Folk and Foliage until, while

Dark and blue-cast shadows

Cross our faces, we

Wither down to bone.