The Night the Moon was Replaced by a Forest

Midnight on the moon, I walk a blue wood.
Trees with white oak trunks and larch branches sigh,
motionless, exhaling an atmosphere.
I breathe on the needle-leaves, give it back.
The colors are thin, like bright sky through mist,
and swollen Earth is pinned to black canvas,
glowing: enough light to grow by, no more.
I see ocean and cloud in the moon trees,
a bark of icicles, stiff poking roots
thrust hopefully into moondust, searching.
They find each other, they find the center.
They keep going, to feed, grow. To connect.
The moon shrivels in, a cosmic raisin.
The ground is gone leaving a knot of trees
and me falling back to Earth.