They are somber and wise,
With roots which barely uphold them.
Their bark and bones bending,
Brittle, breaking . . .

It is the damp season,
their gunfire-like crack muted,
in wait of the hot hard summer ahead.

Lovely and leaning,
With a strange restless readiness about them.
It is time, or it will be soon.

They have earned their wrinkles and scars,
They have given everything they can.
The axe man will not let them lean much longer.
And perhaps they know this, too.

So, they let go.