V. H. King's Ink

Her last words were “I’m sorry, Sir.
I didn’t mean it—” and could you
imagine if the trees said the same?
When their branches shake with laughter
while playing in the wind, if they swayed
and danced and then suddenly dropped still
when God looked over one mountainous shoulder.

“How could you not mean it when each
of your rings have embraced the very
purpose I gave you?”

No, the trees aren’t bashful when they shudder,
groan, twist, creak. Every autumn they weep,
leaves loosening themselves to rocky
ravines that will break a hunter’s neck
and help hide the evidence.

The trees mean it when they retreat within
themselves. They mean every moment
of stark winter silence when scarlet saturates
a four-o-clock sky and midnight falls
fifteen minutes later. When they still
their exteriors, will their inner worlds hush
too? Perhaps, for a time. But before

beach vacations are planned and dandelions
bask their happily stubborn faces to the sun,
the trees will wake. Sap churns upwards,
nutrients drawn from deepest root to outstretched
fingertips. Look at them sway, dancing again.