#thetrees

What more can I say about the trees?

What more can I write about

their bending in the breeze?

And are there any secrets left behind

that with my keyboard I have not

been able yet to find?

Surely all the angles have been found,

the changing leaves in autumn,

their falling to the ground.

Their beauty in the winter, draped in snow,

encumbered branches heavy with

their burden, bending low.

Are there any images untold?

any shadows left unseen

within their leafy fold?

I cannot think of anything unsaid,

so surely I will have to put

this matter quite to bed.

But I am walking in the woods, and then

a shift of light, an image strikes,

a. Birds b. One bird c. No birds Ever since the birds flew away from my words no one believes me anymore my hands are empty I show them they look they smile indulgently and turn away once I could call and a bird would sit on my shoulder its warm weight was proof now silence nests in my throat and even I no longer trust my voice

The maples grow in clusters,

the hemlocks stand alone,

the arborvitae march in lines

each one of them a clone.

The oak stands in the open,

reigning with their size,

and centuries go up in smoke

each time a redwood dies.

The willow weeps in solitude

within the shallow glade,

the scrub pine comes in legions,

in the sandy, silent shade.

Like tribes from ancient worlds,

they all once had their place,

but since have been divided

by a hungry human race.

These woods know everything

The professions of love, of hate, of fear