Bare Hands

A plume of green mirrors grows
next to a barren wall of bark
two bodies bursting from the ground
beside a tower of red brick.

The roots snake through sand and clay
only stopping for the smoldering asphalt above.

A hushed breath carries through Spanish Moss
dancing like strands of loose hair,
and dead leaves
tumble onto tire tracks in the grass.

The moment is interrupted
by the screaming engine
of a speeding bike
on a lonely highway.

Nature does not grow around us.
We impose ourselves inside it
and kill the empty space
with our sweating hands.