If the trees could speak, I would say

"Tell me all you've seen."

And then, rest my head at the arch of the root, fasten my ears to the crass bark and listen.

For trees do not see.

They would thrum and resonate amidst their circles and squares,

To the inner tempo of the earth and to that rhythm, I would match—beat for beat—with the constance of my own heart.

For trees do not see.



If the trees could speak, I would cry,

"Tell me all you've felt."

I would climb their branches and hide amidst their leaves, limb around limb and still myself,

For trees feel no pain.

I would query about their inhabitants,

Whose nests and hives I wish not to disturb.

Lest I get stung, and not them,

For trees feel no pain.



If the trees could speak, I would sigh,

"Tell me all you've known."

And I would lie in the shade of their generosity,

For trees do not know.

The moon and sun would chase each other like lovers overhead,

They will never meet, but nobody tells them that.

Not the trees,

For trees do not know.



If the trees could speak, I would mourn,

"Tell me all you are."

And I would wait for an eternity,

For trees do not speak.

But they will, with honor, pull my bones asunder,

Before the wind weathers us down.

I would die then, a silent passing with their audience, and nobody would ever find the remains.

Nobody could.

For trees do not speak.