Timbered

Round and round they go
          with a ribbon and garlanded
                    flowers in hand.

The bark won't unravel,
          the tree spells solidness—we
                    grand oaken, elmed selves

of the ancients. Our blood
          is clean. There's no pining
                    away for tomorrow, we are

in current respiration,
          we move with the wind.
                    Singular we are

stunning. In horde
          we are dense differing
                    dream. The autumnal

flashiness these days
          is drought-determined.
                    We barely go beyond

the red. Our hollows
          are never vacant. We live
                    to board, we take

the ax. Marbled inside
          the original stem. We were
                    born we don't know when.

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Copyright © 2010 Emily Rosko All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission