Voices on the Wind
The Tree Graces
by Ken Boe
The trees do not line the trail,
the trails line the trees
even since before trees,
and there was somebody to tree them.
We take our time, talking our way
up into the mountain, breathing
up and down each foot over each root
meaning a thousand more meanings leading
each thought over a thousand more trails.
The trees do not form this language,
we form language like birds building nests
in the twigs of what reaches around us,
branching off into other conversations
which is not of their volition,
but is our afterthought
after having seen the cross
through the corners of our eyes
marking them up,
scribbling over them with analogies
which wander through the conversation.
We came upon a giant boulder,
a great chatterbox of ideas, in its own right,
or our right of way, and this variable
didnít move an inch, but our thoughts dug in.
We held it in place, actually.
The hostess last night,
practically our prisoner,
managed to keep us entertained.
The trees growing on the back of my neck
sink their roots deeper, stretching their backs:
My pencil having broken
when I read the first line;
the great rock showed signs of cracking,
or our signs put on their own show
cracking the code of our questions
with a big and bolder question
which sunk even deeper into the possibility
that we were guilty of something.