The Relief of Trees

When I’m feeling down and mean,

people crawling on my nerves

like spiders hatching in my spleen,

I find some measure of relief

if I take the time to breathe,

lift my sour, bickering head

from the stooping ranks of the living dead,

and contemplate the trees.

Like sentinels of an adjacent world

they watch along the avenues,

or stand in groves in yards or parks,

splendid giants with mighty limbs

like the arms of Titans flexed on high

or dancing nymphs with willowy hips

frozen in a stretch or twist,

inviting my admiring eye

ever upward to their branches’ tips

etched against the boundless sky.

And on the outskirts of my perception

I sense the silence then, the palpitation,

the wordless breath that all things share,

binding us in common peaceful prayer;

and my friends, my relatives, the trees,

welcome me once more into their vivid sphere

where my troubles have no meaning.