By Ada Limón
The Implications of Trees
How can they bear it, the weight
of all they see? Scroll after scroll
of human crime and cruelty, but
also each storm dripping rainwater
down their fronds or leaves,
the gentle touch of the beloved.
Over and over I am unsettled
by their – it’s not fortitude – not
surrender either. They have
bravery running both directions.
Canopy to forest floor, they do
not rage or blame or cling, but
keep a record of days
that of course they do not call days,
but simply “this” and sometimes
imperceptibly, “more of this.”
And, Still
Wild ginger blossoms torch out
of stems as light beckons more
light. Birds I do not know
are conversing with the great
unknown, with the now
and what is beyond the now. My
home state is on fire again. Fire
knows no border and no edges,
and wind has always been my one
true enemy. Grieving is always called
for, rise to it, ready to drink. One
morning is full of secret bird speak
and one morning is eaten by flame.
Darling, do my eyes still open? And
my ears, tell me, are they still curious,
leaning to hear some strange new
song passing swiftly across the sky?
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