Are the trees born
To love the wind?
Do they remember,
The first words She whispered
That carried unto them the strength to
Leap forth from their own mothers’ grasp –
Leave now and together,
We can be free
Or do they learn their arboreous ardor,
From the continued caresses
She berates them with
Ceaselessly until their boughs bow
To her whims?
Having watched the two entwined,
On a perfectly peaceful summer morn,
I cannot tell
Where Her hand ends
And where the timber’s yearning begins,
Swaying in tune to a call
I can all but hear.
Surely, this love was born in the roots
Of forests far away,
In both time and place,
Before the seedling was an inkling
To us who are lucky enough to bear witness to,
Affection too pure to be anything,
But dumb luck leading the lover to the loved.
Post-Neology 