Every tree is an ancestor tree，

    not just grandfather redwoods.

    Every sapling， every sprout，

    carries that majesty，

    the dissolution of stone and bone，

    of mold and leaf and tongue，

    flowing as freely as blood

    in earth's leisurely body，

    the oldest and slowest rhythms

    crooning in its ways.

    But who can sing with maple and beech

    in the cold wind's demanding meters？

    The crimson and gold of their dying fall

    choke the singing of our blood.

    We cling to the tree of our moment，

    weep for its unleaving； our mothers

    and brothers， so recently fallen，

    neither flow in the roots

    nor creep upward under the bark

    nor come to rest in orderly rings.

    We know where our flesh is buried，

    know the place and mark it，

    but also know the repetend，

    know the flesh will bend

    to the root， creep in the trunk，

    sing in the leaf，

    fall and repeat itself，

    old as every wizened oak，

    old as the sap and sea salt

    in every infant's blood.