Katherine’s Coffeehouse

Two Brown Trees

We are not immortal, and neither is this poem

After a while,I am tired of trees.Not the woody-armed entity,bigmouthed and knotty nosed,that watches over our home.Not the longstanding gatheringof trunk and twig, thick skinned,evocatively named: Sycamore.Black walnut. River birch.Red maple. Not the resolutecedar, meditative, still, impermeable, apotheosis having long beencompleted. They are actualized,the Holy of Holies, fabled and tangibly ancient. Unlike we,awaiting our turn,

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