By the road
in the field
they stand, lifting branches
they cannot remember,
rocking shut
in the wind.
In some other world
they grew such trunks
and hurled their leaves
across the sky.
Now, empty-handed,
they wait
for the end which has been
happening for years.
Nodding off
beside telephone wires,
tethered to farmhouses,
the old trees.
-Wesley McNair