We Are Trees

WE ARE TREES

We are trees in our own forests
according to our birth
In this copse we are fifty-two
and losing touch with earth
Our roots are not so sturdy,
and our fruits have shriveled so
Some of us are now diseased
and others under snow
Our backs are not so vertical,
our branches, brittle, too,
and when the mighty winds blow
our old limbs swing askew
Our leaves are sagging downward
our bark, scaly, decayed,
and soon, as we die off,
this land will be a glade
Other wooded areas are young
and growing strong
Their leaves are shiny, supple,
and their branches full of song
Their trunks are thick and robust,
with sap flowing with ease
and in their new limbs, robins nest
swaying in the breeze
As the years bring rain and sunshine
to this aging forest floor,
we take comfort in the knowledge
that our death makes room for more