I sometimes wonder

without result

what the birches say

one to another

 

whether their discourse

differs with the seasons

 

whether their nights’ talk

is more tender more

lyrical than their days’

 

I wonder what they felt

when I circled them

with wood cut

from sturdier trees

 

whether being ringed 

by dead wood

changed their mood

 

whether they agreed 

that a tableau of birches

white in a ring of dark

makes an altar where 

a man can worship

his private backyard god

 

I do not doubt they

miss fallen sisters

burst from the same soil

 

the ones most bent 

by ice and wind and time

yet never ringed by

dead wood as are they

 

I do not doubt they 

sensed their sisters 

become chimney smoke

borne by a north wind to

find another way to be

in another yard

 

I hope the quick feet

of chipmunks and cardinals

on bark and branch

make them shake 

their leaves in delight

 

even as they know 

the next winter 

will have its way

or the worshipping man

will require more sacrifice.

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