(In memory of Peter Viereck) The twin oaks meshing by the mall seem hardly to have changed at all in thirty years. When I was small I hummed and played inside the dusk at noon this tall consortium made. Though half my life has steamed away, these trees have lost only a day. When I am brittle with decay, these beings will be firm. Amid us flickers, they alone are still. Soon now, my flesh like bark will flow in knots, my hand will be a row of roots, my spine will rot. Yet no tree-life will be my compensation, when I grow into a tree.
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