The memories of trees are long

no matter if their roots are lifted from the earth and left

to reach hungrily for the sky. Even those who have gone

without a trace remember. The Arbre du Ténéré without limbs

and possessing nothing left to fill

the space of the Sahara, issues a tale of warning, telegraphed

through the vibration of sand. Even those who dwell

as an apparition among the deaf and blind fill the wind

with their perpetual green soprano voice, their resonant baritone

thrumming song. Each sleepy Winter is etched

in the mounting scars of timber skin. The worms

of wood carving out highways in Summer add their own cadence

out of view. The sharp beaks of spotted peckers

in Spring remain, forever morphing their staccato

into punctuation marks. The driving assault of globes

of rain, and bleaching rays of a brutal sun increase

the tale until it is told forever. My human ears cannot grab it

from the gales or breezes, but my hands feel its rhythm

so very like an anticipatory heart.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019