Trees find their own way of greening their world
limbs made for running little factories
not away
making cleaner air from mud
No one makes a stand like they
Heard their stump speeches?
Watched their pages turning
into bookies betting on our fate?
But trees do their leaving
just by letting go
no bus, no train or plane to blow
one little piece at a time
till with only bones
they brave winter
while others don a fur
like some conifer
wearing coats all year
Cleaner air from mud! What a genius thought. Trees have pages and bookies! Some poems are like little acid baths of truths, concealed just underneath their waters.