Standing alone
near the evergreens
who nod and sway
knowing one another—
some from seeds dropped from their
own branches, in another year.
Their own children, but no tree knows its own,
only that it continues the forest.
Some grew from seeds dropped
by birds, bringing them in
from other forests, enriching this one.
Birds who made their homes here and
whose songs and chirping young
harmonized with the moan of needles
moved by the wind.
That forest sang in harmony.
On the edge, the oaks and elms
not quite a part of the forest,
they who change throughout the seasons…
fickle in their outer beings
while their sister pines and firs remain steadfast.
Which ones are the mothers and grandmothers?
Does the sprouting of their seeds show?
How can they tell?
Are they more special?
And the lone birch, no other of its kin, on the edge,
no song to sing of its young…
is it part of the forest?
Who hears its song?
Does it sing with the others
or does its own song
hurt the harmony of group?
Do their roots enmesh,
these trees of the forest?
Entwine, not noticing who is who?
The deep and the shallow, woven,
forming a strong place for them all?
Different above, beauty of differences…
so knit together below that they are one…
the grandmother and the mother and the not-mother.

Bev Hartford, for The Poplar Grove Muse