Everything Trees

They’re shade
From the sunshine
Shield from the rain
Pulp for the paper
And wood for whittling

They’re body’s
For climbing
Arms for a swing
Markers of time
And fruit for picking


They’re trunks
For the tapping
Billboards of love
Home for critters
High on up above

They’re kindling
For cooking
Heat in our hearths
Leaves for the looking
With your sweetheart

So everybody
Listen to me
Give a big hug
To the
Everything tree


Bill MacEachern
10/29/2021

whatever i touch
turns into tragedy—
Midas wishes his hands
were made of mine.

i dare not touch
trees and their leaves—
their old age
will not matter
once i graze their skin.

i do wonder
if everything good
that comes are worthy
of my ruin—
they quickly turn
sour and ugly
once they,
finally,
rest their heads
on my lap
and i am left here,
once again,
picking up the scraps,
telling myself
nothing incredibly,
or inherently, bad
has happened yet.

but what if it comes?

what if the world
decides to put
the blame on me
and punish me
for simply being alive?

should i keep
crawling back
to life?

or should i
accept the fate
i have been given?

A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and a long a path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the homes entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight I’ll the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed through the humble
Yet mighty wooden thing open
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.

the trees were my first love.
you are my second, maybe.
i don’t love you any less, baby,
just because i love them first
and maybe more or deeper.
then again, i miss you more—
but how could i miss the trees,
even as they fill my lungs?
and are nourished by my wastes?

until i turn blue and later black
and later seed, root, and flower
the trees will love me more.

One more before I go.
Into the wilderness of parts and dreams. A happy send off in the cool morning.

I will be back in a new form perhaps, a more rounded crown of a tree, after years of pruning.
A "wild and precious life" with untold horrors, spoken dreams, and wandering caravans of thought.

In yellow abodes loving kindness which is yours. Maybe it will seep in like a root gives to it's leaves. Traveling through twisted currents. It's fragile rose petals. Short lived. But remembered.

in the worst oppressive nights
breeding chafer beetles
  bead the trees   outside the hospital
they copulate
in their hundreds of thousands

what a release

I find beauty in the trees,

truth in the breeze,

security in the sunrise,

and peace in your blue eyes.

With all their long toes,

the trees stand in the floodlight --


of the poppy field.

Silvery glaucous

leaves sail away from the trees --


Little crescent moons.