By Dave Nielsen
I am fond of the old trees
in city parks
cut off from the forests
of their youth.
The wind is the same
as through the woods
at high elevation.
Walking the little paths
beneath them, there is
a premonition
of wolf and bear watching us
through blue millennia
of time.
At dusk the voices of tree women
howl softly.
They don’t ask us
for meaning,
they may or may not be
in pain. The moss
wraps round them
like a garment.
When they fall over the trail
the rangers take chain saws,
and we walk
right through them.
About Dave Nielson
Dave Nielsen is from Salt Lake City and is the author of Unfinished Figures, a collection of poems.