Trees

There is the sycamore, the magnolia, the dogwood, the elm, the oak, the maple.
The cherry blossoms have bloomed and fallen. The street lies under their false snow.
The window is befriended by a tree and its branches. It is waving hello and goodbye.
In some countries, they leave the stumps of dead trees in circles just to prove a point.
I have been inside the hollow trunks of the largest trees in the world. I have lit fires there.
There is the mahogany, the redwood, the crab-apple, the lemon, the orange.
All the hunched over trees are handing out their fruit today for free.
The insects have taken advantage of the offer. They glitter in that sweet flesh.
A cross-section of a tree shows where the worms have burrowed through, years ago.
A plaque shows the man who has given his money to plant the tree.
There is the ash, the shredded paper, the dead fire and the smoke.
I have cut down a thousand trees and burned their bodies on a pyre.
The letters rising from the embers spell nothing we can read.