If I sit outside long enough
I notice that the trees change
the creak of aging wood,
the lichen on gnarled branches…
Even in death, the trees offer refuge —
countless perches for tired crows
a vantage point to observe
the neighborhood cats
with their fat bodies
and languid eyes
The abundance of my backyard surprises me
with its tenacity of growth,
as if my tiny plot of land
is on the cusp of being consumed
by the encroaching mountainside
with its wild dazzle of swaying pines
I wonder at the strength of trees;
at how the wood wants to reclaim it all
this lawn, this house, this feeble garden
It’s likely to succeed
