The tree listened
when my husband died.
I leaned my head
against its trunk
and cried.

No words passed,
but I took its strength
and knew
that life at last
secretly transforms
until what is seen
becomes unseen,
and what has been
is still to be.
— Moyra Caldecott, "Fern-Leafed Beech"

When trees grow thick and tall
In the original woods
The older ones are not
Allowed to fall but break
And lean into the arms
Of neighbors, shedding bark
And limbs and bleaching silver
And gradually sinking piece
By piece into the bank
Of rotting leaves and logs
To be absorbed by next
Of kin and feeding roots
Of soaring youth, to fade
Invisibly into
The shady floor in their
Translation to the future.
— Robert Morgan, "Translation"