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Trees Standing at the Edge
I once saw these trees
which were plain,
mingling with barbed wire
as they grew,
pressing chains into
themselves,
bearing sharp bits of
grenade as they grew,
swallowing fencing or
railing into themselves
as they grew.
What choked them
they caressed,
when they hadn’t the strength
to push away,
what blocked their path
they drew inside,
when without the footing
to take the leap,
even knowing
what fierce scars
they would become.
So I am asking of this new century,
that our love not be too deep.
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Trees on the Edge
They lace barbed wire into their skin as
they grow,
press chains into their flesh as they grow,
carry the shrapnel embedded in their
bones as they grow,
swallow railings and fences as they grow—
these nameless trees I have seen.
It seems, when they lacked the strength
to repel
that which strangles them,
they embraced it instead,
absorbed instead
that which stands in their way
when they lacked a toehold from which to
jump over,
knowing all the while
the scars that would sear into them.
So, dear twenty-first century,
let us not love too deeply.
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