Wrinkled Toddler

Morning, a  
decrepit hour  
for wilting flowers  
ashamed to turn and see  
a sun so bright  
   
Sad flowers, blown to where trees don't let light,  
where sunken seeds adjacent  
remain far from patient,  
they splay at a rate near instantaneous  
atop the toppled  
crop or Rose and where  
   
Foxy, Fox Glove fathers  
hand lands thier sons and daughters  
in numbers that will surely flaunt  
him, them and theirs    
as most boisterous bothers when    
commandeered earth springs  
atop ill conceived notion,  
that  
being  
that  
you    
could  
have  
ever  
done    
more    
than  
become a drop in my  
ocean  
No time to wrinkle, just to  
hear your stem, crick, crack, crinkle,  
as you are swallowed  
   
I am the Forest,
I am the fox