maple trees sing

maple tree branches sigh before me
past winter breaths
and December whines
like the sighs we exhumed in transit

a tree sings for nothing, other
than the song the branches sing themselves.
if there was a song, other
than the mightiness of a tree in bloom
i wouldn’t hear it at all.

trees live the longest lives

the quiet acquiescence to the seasons belies
something more true about time than we’ll ever know.
in the vibrant air
of summer
we live with the electricity of botanical mechanisms.
across many more summers and the truth
is now for someone else,
someone who doesn’t remember our name,
someone who sees the same tree.

a million windows have seen my pause
a window will see a million more dreams.

trees dream of catfish doing backrolls and pillbugs doing handstands
to the glimglam song our sun hullaballoos out

trees dream with each of their leaves turned down

somber and benign are the dreams
their nature is shy

we dream for lives that need not ever be
for the world to keep turning

even the owl and the chickadee know all this
know only this

if you never learn to look in wonder at a tree you’ll never really know what it means to wonder
even after hunger
even after heartbreak
even after death.
wonder inspired by reality itself is too pure for us, though i saw it once in baby blue eyes.


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