I apologize, trees,
for the many drafts of poems
and the reams and reams of paper 
I’ve squandered to earn my living.
I apologize to the roots and rhizomes
and fungi, filaments of hyphae stretched sentient
between them—a resonant sheath of underground tree.
I apologize for my wood-beam house,
its redwood deck, the cords of firewood,
for gift wrap, grocery bags, and individual, 
lunch-sized juice boxes
I could have done without.
But I make no apology for books.  
May they support each tendril of consciousness
we stretch between us, 
so that we, too, may vibrate—
each one of us
nurtured by our own kind.