Treeline

 
You march in single file
past my car window,
carrying human voices through
endless cables.
 
Can you hear the silver-green songs your
leaves once whispered?

Standing forever at attention,
you hold back the wild forest like
riot police.

Do you remember holding the wind?

Replanted into ground that once embraced you more
gently,
do you still touch rain, frost,
earth?

You carry words of love, anger,
longing.

Do you ever listen to what you now are
forced to tell or do you recall stories your
rings remember?

Dandelion summers,
autumn days, crisp as
red apples.

You were stolen, stripped,
enslaved.

Does leaf, breeze, feather still know
your name?

Before you became functional
you were home to birds, scurrying creatures,
dreams.

Do phantom branches reach to cradle nests
long forgotten?

Do you remember,
can you remember,
when all you ever had to be
was simply

a tree?