Trees

The days will return - - chlorophyl will again green forest–wide. The weathered trunk, another eon– a new river etched in its map– The bits of duration–cycled times and time for forestfuls of leaves fallen and seasons of humus. Roots reaching - - flushed by earthworms across currents, sucking of rain–wet to the chant the chant of the soil, quiet as, holy quiet as a feather worn above . . . Night keeps vigil, enduring as the eroding coffin lid. Above the tree–leaves blend a canopy upholding its charge to accept nests, to shed seeds. by David Beleckis