Trees are singing near my house.
Under weight of falling snow
and eight miles of air they
sing slowly from the heart.
Branches crack and saplings whip around
leafless and brown when wind dances.
No bird could cling to these wild things.
They are singing a song of cold and sleep.
Loss is their melody now and nothing more.
No spring, no summer in this tune, only ice.
Stars hum descant as trees sing—
I learn my place in this deep and subtle art.
Trees near my house sing slowly from the heart.