THE TREES THEY WERE ASKING

"Then the moon— oh that pale persuader

slid low through the marbled black sky

and the trees, ever stern as a grader

said softly, “his light is a lie.'"

The trees whisper their terrible knowing— a chorus of dread that bends between reality.

Why linger in the warmth of breath when shadow calls so sweetly?

A relic for those who hear what the trees remember.