There are no dead things (poem)

The plateau of green and
the blue from below calls its song out to me and I'm hoping to go but
my feet in their binds stay away in their cries and they grapple the
ground missing refuge from clouds

   In rotting and charred I just
lay while i watch as the winds sing the dance of the grass as I'm stuck
as a mule lain in passing the clicks of the glacier before me a slumber
for winter and melted for spring, my dry lungs cant sing

   So
again as a log must admire I watch and I hope and remember the song of
my leaves when the sun isn't hot in its form and mosquitos don't swarm
and coolness is trying to keep warm, and it takes forever to rot but
down here laying flat as the deer in their dance come along and the
grass wraps around and unravels with each balanced leap that it travels
it seems like her spirit is flying along like the dolphins that glide in
a lost tribal song unforgotten by phantom and blue sunny light bending
reeds in their length guide the wind in its wake like there's no
destination and still boundless beauty she breathes, and I sit in awe of
these things...

 As old and as cracked as my skin surely seems I
am breathing with life and the whisping of oxygen still fills my trunk
and the holes the cicadas have built bring whispers and whistles
throughout as I wilt.