~ Delta Poetry Review ~

The Holiness of Trees

Our cousins with wooden skin have their own
five senses. Eyespots on leaves see all
around them: invading insects, apple scab, wilt.

Their latticed taproots rush messages and medicines
to offspring. Epicures of the air, they taste honeysuckle winds
and crisp water, trying to make homes in the dark rich soil

on the edge of ponds, creeks, streams, rivers, and estuaries.
They too weep when they’re hurt, leaves and cones
like falling tears, screaming silently when someone whacks

a limb off. Or when a predator with steel teeth fells them.
They fall in love with other trees, even when humans
turn trees into Birch punishments, gallows, or crosses.

They have hosted the nightingale alone
on a moonless night and also frolicked with Maypoles.
In the cycle of seasons, they dress in the thick green suits of

moneyed magnolias, but wear penitent-thin sackcloth
in late November when the sun turns away. But always
there is music in them, rustling leaves, pattered rain drops,

lightning scherzos, fortissimo storms. Citizens
of earth, they long ago came to reverence the land
that for ages their ancestors have blessed.

The Spring Equinox

Breezes work their magic on clouds--
butterflies fly out of a sunset and

water oaks laugh leaves, lush and trilled;
frogs wear frock coats readying themselves

for a concert of night music. Every blade
of grass dances. The air speaks in

bouquets of honeysuckle, and
the local stream recites vows

cascading in rivulets flowing past
shadows rustling in trees.