THE TREES, THE TREES

The trees, the trees at August evening, the way they fall calm beneath the shadow of the mountain-- leaves curling around all the sunlight they can hold, quieting down-- the insects sing for them as catkins droop amid the cooling air sliding toward the lake-- all the world's religions fall pale beside these living books, that have grown into flowers and become the seeds of now for eons before we even opened our eyes-- and here they are yet, in groves of old, calmly settling in for the same mid-August night, their choruses resounding with ancient song for the sun still red in the windows of the village on the far shore, conjuring reasons for tomorrows that come unbidden, unbounded by our mere desires, as it is with the trees...