The Trees

The trees inside are moving out into the forest, / the forest that was empty all these days / where no bird could sit / no insect hide / no sun bury its feet in shadow / the forest that was empty all these nights / will be full of trees by morning. // All night the roots work / to disengage themselves from the cracks / in the veranda floor. / The leaves strain toward the glass / small twigs stiff with exertion / long-cramped boughs shuffling under the roof / like newly discharged patients / half-dazed, moving / to the clinic doors. // I sit inside, doors open to the veranda / writing long letters / in which I scarcely mention the departure / of the forest from the house. / The night is fresh, the whole moon shines / in a sky still open / the smell of leaves and lichen / still reaches like a voice into the rooms. / My head is full of whispers / which tomorrow will be silent. // Listen. The glass is breaking. / The trees are stumbling forward / into the night. Winds rush to meet them. / The moon is broken like a mirror, / its pieces flash now in the crown / of the tallest oak.