The knotholes hear our confession.
We imagine them as priests of vanishing trees,
lords of birds and clouds
giving absolution to creatures of the forest.

Will we flinch when the axe falls,
bow down to devil horns of flames?
We pray, buckle at our knees.
We, too, are vanishing.

Is it the wind that makes the branches creak?
Fleshy tongues mumble through plush moss. 
What are our penances?
We run from these confessionals

toward a door in cracked light.
There all who wronged us are waved away.
Nothing can save them
from the jaws of  fire, the silent stones.