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Trees.

Trees.

Don’t trust the trees, isolated, spiteful, not the huggable life savers we are led to believe. Reaching roots, twisted branches, all grasping for something from the earth or air, from passing people. Then again, maybe I’m wrong, who knows what the trees think.


Whispering Trees.

Trees are just squandering the time they have
by watching everything.

They count years like we count minutes,
each ring a sign of slow movements
as they rail against the wind
or the changing seasons.

Whispering secrets between themselves,
they save leaf fall for when the grass is greenest,
jealous of the camaraderie.

The trees lift the cornerstones of a nearby house
surprised at the brittle nature of our lives.

They only care when the wood burns in the forest,
there is no life and death, only the earth and the sky
and the narrow strip between.

We sit angled between the two, the trees reach
across to touch both.

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