I hear them sigh

The trees know more than us.

They watch in hushful envy,

Wonder why we mimic them

Rooted and silent.

They are patient with the sky,

Never call the debt in,

Ever pouring oxygen

Into the blue.

If we could be as trees

Would we wear our flakes

And loose skin with dignity,

Strive for age-rings?

Could we be majestic

Magnolias or Dogwoods,

Fondant bowls held skyward,

Grateful for rain?

We assume trees have no plans

Other than to be trees,

Content to sway and listen

In wistful rustle.

And if it were not so,

Would they eschew the sight

Of dawn-light’s diamond dew,

Yearn to roam?

Trees do not fear their ruin—

Are satisfied to dampen

Forest floor for fungi

And springy seedling,

Bearing quiet witness

To tender stem unwinding

Upon the moonlit stage

They shyly girdle.

Trees cannot be but trees

But they can share their secrets

Through beauty and quiescence

They shall enlighten.