With Leaves Upturned

These are the groaning days
I see no beauty in the forest
No husbandry or a hand mill of our senses
There is no lurking laughter
No strokes of luck
No blessings, no being of one mind
No stalk weed moments ignoring the sun
Just blisters and ashtrays with leaves upturned
And I will not forget
What it was like to remember