My mother is a barren field that somehow managed to have children.

	I am in the passenger seat.

Some mothers give birth, then take, take, take.

	My mother is behind the wheel. 

Some mothers fall into tar pits of depression and linger there.

	The car is moving as if it’s having a seizure, jerking and weaving. 
	Accelerating.
	
Some mothers are furious volcanoes— you never know when they will erupt.
Some mothers are distant ice-storms; there’s no mother there at all.

	There are children playing in the road.
	Balls, jump ropes, a plastic bat. 

Some mothers make very small lives and then live them.

	She is holding up a newspaper in front of her face.

Some mothers tell many lies, new lies that fail to cover old lies.

	Her feet press the pedals at random. She is laughing. 

I have had each of these mothers, sometimes.
Other times, none.

	I am trying to steer. So many children!

Now my mother has aged into a repulsive kind of old—
sits and complains, eats junk, grows ever more obese 
on sugar-coated untruths about the past.

	I can’t reach the brakes.

She’s almost dead, having never really lived.

	Am I doomed to live this way forever?

Eucalyptus trees arrayed
in stark isolation—
mandated social distancing
to reduce fire danger.

A colony of fungi 
work for wages around their roots,
taking their salary in carbohydrates,
captured sunlight.

The workers spin long threads, 
mycelia, which connect to the fungi 
of nearby trees and plants—
a cellular communication network.

How did it feel to the trees, then,
to have their neighbors
cut down, dug up, sliced,
and hauled away?

Was it like an amputation,
or like having a best friend
move far away 
with no forwarding address?

Were they shocked?
Do they mourn?

Did they howl in outrage,
a silent mycelial scream?

Are they howling still?