The trees say plait. They say plage. The wind shreds
their skin, the wind wears them down, it opens space
between the tangled branches. They say light. They cling
to the last yellow leaves like a badge of loss. They say less.
They wear the scent of rain in their disappearing hair.
The trees’ bodies weave a wall between our lives in the street
and the woods. They make an edge where the woods are something
seen beyond a roofline. Someplace where birds go to live.
The trees point their branch tips at the garbage collectors.
They shrug their shoulders at the blue sky tossing itself
like seeds. They swear last year was different. I plan to be
different. I plan to touch the trees today. I will look them in the eye.
The trees don’t mind me, it’s the weight of their years
that bends them. They struggle to stand upright. They breathe
into our mouths. They say heat. They say home. They say hold on.
–
Meghan Sterling (she, her, hers) lives in Maine. Her work is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Rhino Poetry, Nelle, Poetry South, and many others. These Few Seeds (Terrapin Books, 2021) was an Eric Hoffer Grand Prize Finalist. Self-Portrait with Ghosts of the Diaspora (Harbor Editions), Comfort the Mourners (Everybody Press), and View from a Borrowed Field (Lily Poetry Review’s Paul Nemser Book Prize) are all forthcoming in 2023.