monochrome photography of bare tree

Sometimes I hear the trees talking

about that first tree of knowledge,

the natural fruit it bore,

that it’s not their fault the world

is how it is. That the human mind,

necessary as it is, doesn’t always

seem natural. That instead of fitting

things together it tears them apart

and doesn’t know how to heal. “Thank

God for the heart!” they whisper

leaf by leaf, tree by tree, root by

root. Sigh and dance with the wind,

look at me to make sure I’ve heard

The Sermon of the Trees today.

I bow slightly, my eyes squinting

in the sun, almost understand

what the crows are saying.

Hootism: as soon as you say, “This is,” it becomes “That was.”