The Woodpecker by Caroline Liberatore

Centuries of trees carpet the forest,

Call it a ragtag quilt of decay and ruckus.

Through the grovel you drum in the distance

But your notions ricochet, incoherent.

The monologue is cluttered, as is the ceiling,

And yet I know somewhere beyond the leaves

You flit. The woodpecker, in your great inquiry, 

Insisting upon some plucked and virtuous thing.