For Trees

What’s left is long buried:

Roots in the dark,
stories dissolving—
pressure in every vesicle,
between the soil
and all the sky reachable.

They were the stage,
the actor,
the playwright.

A barren terrace
slowly grows its cover;
shuffling sunshine
weaves the shape.

What’s left is long buried:
lumber from the hill—
to build,
for fuel,
material ideal.

I pray
to the storm,
to the fire.

I pray
to the axe,
to the hand,
to the eyes.

Be kind
to the souls of a giant,
to the bones of time.

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Berkeley,
March 2018