There are the trees you might find
In stands, in yards, in town parks,
And in lines like veils down roads.
Trees are fine parts of most lives,
And all the parts of trees—food
In the form of fruits and nuts—
Wood for beds, chairs, fires, and homes—
Can be found in the poured-stone
And melt-waste cores of dense piles
Of spires and wires far from woods
Of the kind found in kids’ books
Or where small groups make their lives.
So why not write of such trees
Or at least think of these trees?
It’s not like they’re gods or ghosts
Or art. They’re lives you can count,
More lives yet, more lives so far
Than you are. Most types of them
Lived in years Earth had no apes
To cut them down or climb them.
Ah, but you know, the whole woods,
The woods on both sides of skulls,
The woods that are branched with stars,
Those aren’t for you. Those you are.
