WEBVTT

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This is an untitled poem.

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The children of trees
sprout up from dirt,

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up through pine
litter, up past grass.

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Formed and waiting
from before their birth

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is the seed of an
idea feasting on air,

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pushing ever down toward
the wet heart of the Earth.

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Emissaries of ecstasy
built from stars.

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The children of trees
are heirs of silence.

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What the owl breaks
open with its cries.

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Innocence, eloquence, the
silence holding the world

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within intact.

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And so may it be for my
children, my tall saplings whose

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eyes see at once out and in.

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Whose home is kept within
the shade and the wind

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and the history of trees.

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All history is the
history of trees.

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I see my sons in a cherry
grove, luxurious, in full bloom,

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swaying, twirling in wind.

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My young trees, my
once seedling sons

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who hear and heed the
voice of the blossoms.

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This beauty is not us,
but it rises through us

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and is a source of joy.

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Joy floods me for
my willing sons

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who aimed their perfect souls
at the Earth and me on it.

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The children of
trees are children,

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like the children of
rabbits, humans, and doves.

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Their thin branches
bounce when you approach.

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They are so eager to be met.

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They will play a game
with your shadow.

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Laughter escapes through
the tips of their leaves.

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It pains me to remember the
summer a young cousin took

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an ax to the maple sapling
my father grew from a seed.

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He must have stood
there for a moment

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before going to find a weapon.

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And for that little while,
did the tree trust him?

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Is this why my sons cry easily,
and why their tears seem

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to leap from their
eyes like rain rushing

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to quench, to heal the Earth?

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Their sister sat cradled in the
arms of a young bear berry tree.

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Books and trading cards
nestled in its crook.

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Live and straight
backed as a sapling,

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shoeless, and sure
footed, my daughter

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taught me to stride fearless
over the pachysandra

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despite slugs, despite
slick, moss-covered rocks.

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Gaze fixed on the
sunlight, dancing

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on far flickering leaves.

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My children, my forest, I am
afraid to tell you, but must

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about the men, once
saplings themselves, who

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have gone off looking for axes.

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They will be back soon.

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And oh, my children, they,
too, reject the distinction

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between children and trees.

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[APPLAUSE]

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Thank you.

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