i suppose you have trees

the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
i suppose you have trees where you are
that you love the way i love
the sister sycamores in winter
as they raise their white arms
gleaming toward the heavens.
i suppose you have reverend trees
older than the leaning mulberry
or the hollow osage orange;
trees you visit when you’re lonely
or when the world is too much with you.
and i suppose i shall never see
your trees—just as you, in all likelihood,
will never see mine, nor know them
with my poetic knowledge. i suppose
you shall never come in the spring
to see the white blossoms on
the hawthorne sapling or the way
the red leaves of the forest pansy
shimmer like ruby sequins in the morning sun.
but you have trees where you are, surely—
trees that glow like bronze against
the evening sky;
trees whose beauty you are even now
telling someone about.