Speaking Tree
Some things on this earth are unspeakable: Genealogy of the broken— A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre, Or the smell of coffee and no one there— Some humans say trees are not sentient beings, But they do not understand poetry— Nor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by Wind, or water music— Or hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft— Now I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth Between sunrise and sunset— I cannot walk through all realms— I carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark— What shall I do with all this heartache? The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway— To the edge of the river of life, and drink— I have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down: Imagine what would it be like to dance close together In this land of water and knowledge. . . To drink deep what is undrinkable. Joy Harjo
*
Thank you to Beth for bringing this poem to my attention this morning after I took a walk in the woods and found myself thinking about the lives of trees.
