Listen to poem:
Trees that Become One
Morning
arrived
carrying
a
single shadow. By
noon, nobody remembered
whose it was. Rain stitched
its silver messages through
both crowns. Even sunlight crossed
over without choosing sides. A stone
waited in the fork of the branches. Bark
found another way around it. The trunk closed the
seam within its grain. Spring never asked what roots
did underneath. Parents trusted a branch with their
childhood. Air kept its promise, again, again, and again. The
empty seat rehearsed the wind's old arc. The limb still leaned
into an invisible weight. An iron axe left impaled forgot being iron.
Bark buttoned the blade underneath its coat. Birds argued from
the handle, as though they were born there. Nothing foreign survives a thousand
green mornings. Wind never bothers naming neighbouring trunks. For it speaks fluent
Canopy. Darkness untangles every separate beginning. As the forest sways to and fro, to
a chorus of one. Leave before dusk if you must remain one. Stay, and trunks begin
exchanging their
rings. Roots
trade darkness
without changing
places. By
morning, the
light has
stopped, taking sides.
.
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