Editor’s note:  We’re proud to be featuring Michael Lind’s work at Liberty Island. This is the fifth of eight poems.


(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.



Photo by VanVangelis (Pixabay)