Some are hollows, said the trees, and will take you 

entire. Others, like boughs, reach in all directions

and return, flush with light. This one 

is an inner ring, glabrous and 

ring-porous, a vessel shaped by needle-shimmer

and snowmelt, fluid as sap and stilled

as cracked ice. Passing through, said the trees 

will warm each stone you carry 

while shattering the one you’ve become. 

Spring will do that, said the trees

in sunlit branch-sways

and red-taloned drops 

drawing the hare from its moss-burrow 

to meet the lynx. 

It’s not just spring, though. Each season, said the trees

holds a crossing

where what falls apart and breaks every heart

also sings in twig-snaps and current-roars

of cones and ribbon-rays and sapwood-blooms — 

each indelibly tracked, ring 

by ring by stolid ring — 

a record kept of each passing.

Share this article

Leave a Reply