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HOW LITTLE MY GOOD HEALTH |
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| PLANE TREES
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Along the edge of the cemetery I drive
past bark-peel London plane trees, in their green
military camouflage. They're always friendly,
with wide-splayed open arms.
They want to say something but forget the words,
or realize theirs is a different language,
one that only ants or aphids understand.
Only the first crystals and webs of powdery mildew
can decipher the hieroglyphs
woven through sap.
From the rows of headstones
comes the music of forgotten tomes.
The trees stand in vast bashful silence,
too many voices at their feet.
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from Forever the Last Time
Wolsak & Wynn
2004
Copyright © Jim Slominski |
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