Names of the Trees

Steel speaks no forgiveness but for rust

that holds its breath

till the sun explodes red

in some final setting.

But now these fat sticks with feet

in mud and arms across the air,

sway and whisper

like children's choirs

deliberately breathing, jazzing

out fingers to shade the fire

for cool moss underneath.

And when each falls to feed the rest,

anonymous but for stump

or charcoal in its ash

how shall we call it?

And where shall the record be kept?

Listen: trees pronounce

the air, the water, and the spaces

among our feet,

more human than human

persisting:  Let us call them us,

inhaling outgases,

awaiting fullness of some gospel

no one decodes.

Let us call them us.