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T hese ancient trees our ancestors--
and we their children--
Hang above our heads,
cooling these lives with emerald myriad.
Bowed branches let down so we can climb,
pulling us ever-upward towards starry nights
to kiss thier bark and hug thier branches
Keeping close for warmth and life . . .
that which we take for our own.

Our spoken words writ down,
on bleached white bones devoid of golden blood
of our mothers and fathers
Cut down from shimmering lifelines
of rich heritage everlasting
For our uses and our homes
Taking shelter forcefully from bodies
of those who gave it freely in their boughs

And still they watch
awaiting children's laughter,
The heart-fire of young eyes burning bright
for soft words spoken through rustling leaves
of old speech long forgotten.
Lifting gazes towars the heavens,
to where they pointed long ago
For where we left them to seek the stars
Love's life gone from silver leaves,
Until children come
to remember lonely ancestors

-Rachel B-