our children are born
we groan and are heard.
our children die and get sick
we moan and are silenced.
our dreams begin again
visions of everything wrong
our sense of shame and anger
dreams without sleeping.
i wonder if the trees know of this
cycle of good and terrible
this circle of bliss and misery
drawn on our bellies.
sometimes i swear i hear them weeping
when the wind cuts through thier branches
it sounds like loss or hurt
if only we could grow rings
and have something to show
for the pain of each years passing
then we too could be consoled by the breeze
like those towering branches of trees
embracing the next blow
of snow or rain.
we would grow wise in our waiting
and give birth each year knowing
only a few of our saplings will survive.