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.