I miss you from the future
As in, the time ahead bleeds into now
As in, the space apart balloons from here
As in, these minutes will soon be weeks and maybe someday years.

Someday will I see you and not know who you are?
Your bearded face, your grown-up heart?
Once we were Gemini but then we could be strangers.
For years we blossomed side by side,
Now your fern and my oak have been planted far apart.
And I fear we'll forget
we were saplings in the same ***.
For just a moment,
Family.

The gardens of Eden have found a place on earth in the forests of Washington
Moss drips from every bough
Blooms do not falter at the creep of February
The earth is rich and wet with the nectar of life
The Emerald City shines with envy at the lush hues in this wilderness

I’m heading to a special wood.
A magic place to be.
Where whispers can be heard,
from swaying branch of every tree.

There’s Oak and Willow,
Ash and Cherry too.
Each has a tale to tell
and they’re whispering it to you.

I’m going to a special tree.
It’s been here just one thousand days.
At its trunk I sit to listen
to the branches in the breeze.

I pass to it my confidences
and tell it tales anew.
In the hope you hear me
through prayers I send to you.

They don’t just talk, you know.
They take the time to listen too.
If you’ve got a tale to tell,
the tree will pass it on for you.

So, find yourself a special tree
and tell to it your tale.
With a rustle in its leaves,
your story, upon the breeze, will sail.

Each tree, like a guardian,
stands tall and stout.
Giving succour to the ground
and all the flora ‘round about.

Their branches reaching to the sky.
Their roots the soil beneath.
A bridge ‘tween heaven and earth.
Giving faith to my belief.

I gaze upon this special tree.
Think back a thousand days.
‘Tis here you’re laid to rest.
The place I come to pray.

This tree brings hope, that much is true,
and like a conduit,
through it, ‘tis my way,
to commune with you.

branches cusp the foggy air
these trees pave the way
or is it the lack of trees
that determines my fate…
as if there is such a thing

but if there were
it’s not as if the trees
care about my driving habits

and if they don’t care about that
then they mustn’t care where I end up
(since habits shape character, you see)
so I conclude
that fate cannot be

In the valley of darkness, I shall not want
Though a hole resides where the heartbeat should be
The vessels still do their work

My lungs decay, black and smoked out
And my organs dry up from strong rums
And the things I hold dear become a desert storm

But I shall not ask for the help of dying trees
Whose fruit, though ripe, would leave me with less leaves
Or perhaps with more than I could bear

No, I stand on the mountains
The mountains we lived in, where the church sits upon the hill
I stand on the mountains and call for him

I call for him
and I know - without science or senses -
That he is near