It’s silly to call trees people
saying firs waving limbs are yelling at wind,
and cedars so tall their tops disappear
have heads in the clouds,
or to sympathize with plants below
ripening berries, sending out seeds
on wings while struggling for scraps of light,
and then feeding survivors of fires.
Silly. Better listen. Memorial
services have their ways of bringing up
courage, talent, generosity—tales
of folks you thought you knew well
enough not to visit often,
admire, or even think of at all,
you with your head in the clouds
while blueberries, vine maple,
Oregon grape, and a host of others
show up in flames and shame you
doing nothing
much. Late in fall.
Muriel Nelson lives near Seattle where she enjoys edible organic landscaping. Her most recent poetry collections are Please Hold and Sightsinger.
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