Round and round they go
with a ribbon and garlanded
flowers in hand.

The bark won't unravel,
the tree spells solidness—we
grand, oaken, elmed selves

of the ancients. Our pith
is clean. There's no pining
away for tomorrow, we are

in current respiration,
we move with the wind.
Singular, we are

stunning. In horde,
we are dense, differing
dream. The autumnal

flashiness these days
is drought-determined.
We barely go beyond

the red. Our hollows
are never vacant. We live
to board; we take

the ax. Marbled inside
the original stem. We were
born we don't know when.