Under the Trees, by Marion Starling Boyer

Under the Trees (from The Public Gardens), by Edouard Vuillard (France). 1894.

Under the Trees

What do trees say when there is no danger
and they feel content? This I would love to know.
–Peter Wohlleben

The girl knows. Leaning against
one tree, half hidden, her foot
crossed over the other,
you might think she is bashful,
hiding from the other children
blurred in their play or that she
spies on them, but she’s listening
to the tree, her ear pressed
against its bark. Everything
in the park is dappled
and dabbed, muted beneath
mature trees so content
and well-behaved they reach
decoratively to one another,
blooming, sharing a frothy
pale blue fringe that rivers
above the dark and upright
governesses who walk faceless
among them. In the dreamy,
slow-time under the trees
their roots murmur through
fungal filigree, mycelium
threads they use to converse,
confide, deliver food
to the dead, unwilling
as elephants to abandon
their fallen kin. Even giraffes
know the wide-crowned acacias
whisper to one another, send
warnings through the moving
air, so the giraffes browse
faces to the wind. In forests
mother trees recognize and
and care for their kind. The girl
is searching for a mother
tree. Snug against this one
she slows her mind, listening,
uncertain what she listens for,
listening all the same.

Marion Starling Boyer

Boyer has written three collections of poetry: The Clock of the Long Now Mayapple Press, 2009), Composing the Rain (Grayson Books, 2014), and Green (Finishing Line Press, 2003). Her poetry and essays have appeared in many journals, most recently The Tishman Review and Crab Orchard Press. She has moved this year to the Cleveland, Ohio area from Kalamazoo, Michigan.