Tree

In this place, populated with echoes
Not much older than forty years,
The memory of these trees is not long.
Maple and ash are tender and expectant
Awaiting the ushering in of seasons
Deep beneath the snow and sleeping grass
They almost hear 

Genetic rememberings

Sit-upon-lap stories
Of lichens and croci
Soft, dampened chords through barren branch
Resonating tribal humming, low and distant.
We are learning to listen.
We are learning patience
Together, we young things.