About the Trees

Sitting by the window at my desk as though the universe
could dictate for me its delicate stillness.
Downstairs the men are shouting and the
doors are clamouring back disgust for their lives,
but I can’t hear them, the lives scraping themselves
with their burned dishes. Dust gently says little.
Yet this feeling that seems to come
from outside, even barely, the trees and their tall black silences
that I sense are guarding things inside,
the abandonment of their leaves, for instance,
and still, look at the openness of their branches.
I’m sorry, I can’t help but think of them as wings,
which is the explanation for birds who,
like brothers and sisters of leaves, live in them.
I sense this in the tracks I made only this morning,
that I still see now and which lead up to them and
visit and seem to spin below their empty branches.
As an artist, I feel their abandonment in the snow
when I look through them, their silence ready to say
and to enthrall and wind in and out of the hardness
told by 150 years of rotation, and how tracks in
the ground are birds fallen into leaves and like them
have gone on and circled back to be other creatures
knowing what falling flies back to.

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