Meaning of Trees

Sometimes I lean like a tree
where the stream bank bends,
where the current has cut soil away
and the roots, freed up,
are exposed,
left to dry in the sun.

Or there may be fire in the forest
when the words trees speak
are driven
by force of hot wind.
Trees draw back as best they can
and cower.

The trees I think of most often
are the quiet trees
where in the stillness of evening
breeze sounds its best
as it hustles
and rustles the leaves;

where a red sun sets
and clouds at night form a halo;
where a white moon rests
like a ship
anchored safe in a bay.

***

Some men need room,
others drive roots down.
Still others,
more fragile than leaves,
must at once let go
and take a ride on the wind;
thinking, I suppose, to escape,
although from what
has not
in my hearing been mentioned.

Some men I thought of as friends
turned around and rent
anything that got in their way,
especially love,
so that like a tree that can’t run
I am left: abandoned.

***

Did I ask God's help?
His help, I’ve been told by imposters
will grow my wealth,
improve health and extend my life.
It's a con man's game.
At issue’s not the nature of risk,
but the promise claimed.

Why should I trust
a God who made man out of mud,
used for moisture spit,
not living water from a stream?

And yet that is what trees do.
They must.
They cannot move
beyond swaying to and fro in the wind,

though they do bend down
in front of wind wild and vicious;
and they surely dance
and sway to the music of wind
fresh and delicious.

***

So I’ve decided: I shall be a tree.
I shall not be moved
from the place for so long I have waited.
I shall bend down
when life is specially grievous;
at those times dance
to wind’s arrhythmic sound.

I shall put roots down, spread to the sky my branches,
made available niches for nests,
spread pollen yearly for bees,
and let drop down
ripe fruit that has not been picked
for the yellow wasps.

And this, I understand from trees,
is the form trust takes:
the simple accepting and sharing of grace,
freely,
even as received.