Fir Tree

If you could speak
I'm sure you would

with your old
tongueless voice

what trees think
of endless nights

as the houselights dim
and dark, huddled shadows

of a dog and a man
walk beneath you

without knowing you
when you know them.

About spiders living
on your skin, sparrows

tucked in your arms
in cold, biting wind,

then fly from the tips
of your fingers to sky.

How the moon, just above
your limited reach sings

to your cavernous ears
reminding you clearly

you're small, waiting
under a mammoth of stars,

your nameless waiting,
your anonymous waiting

with your all-seeing eye.