by Peter Gallaher
Fifteen trees.
One for the Resurrection.
Of leaves?
Possibly a hundred thousand.
Will they count the drops of blood,
This for you for your own good,
That for me, drink and food?
Fifteen trees.
How long here
Enduring year after
Year in and
Year out,
Moving, unmoved
Witnesses,
Unwilling wood
Of death and life?
Fifteen trees
Bent and straight.
None have learned
How to hate.
All are home
to wind and song.
All are simple
And simple, strong.
