THE TREE

There is a magnificent tree

in my mind,

in my imagination,

a Douglas Fir

let’s say,

and in its strong arms

are the bodies

of men,

in all shapes and ages,

climbing, rising

carrying curses

and gifts, gifts

and curses, and

the one dream:

to be bark, sap, and root,

to be threaded into sky,

to know what it means

to make air,

and how

silently

 a world can be saved

a day at a time

for centuries,

while living inside

a grief

that chooses

not to speak.