A Sermon from the Trees

 

My face in the pond

reminds me of the years when trees

hung bouquets of leaves

from spry branches.

 

But with this inevitable fall,

their green noise retreats

into emptied and subdued

space. But now,

in brittle

silence, I shout.

 

The trees

echo me, beg for their leaves,

raise my earthy ghost,

teach me their desperate spiritual,

lend me their remaining roots.

 

Now, the highway will

creep through the sticks.

The antenna will

puncture the sky.

Now, will I fall silent.

 

In the shadow

of our rusted steel,

I will listen for pooling water,

look to find my eyes

in its tremors.

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