Round and round they go
             with a ribbon and garlanded
                           flowers in hand.

The bark won't unravel,
             the tree spells solidness—we
                            grand, oaken, elmed selves

of the ancients. Our pith
            is clean. There's no pining
                          away for tomorrow, we are

in current respiration,
            we move with the wind.
                          Singular, we are

stunning. In horde,
              we are dense, differing
                            dream. The autumnal

flashiness these days
             is drought-determined.
                          We barely go beyond

the red. Our hollows
              are never vacant. We live
                             to board; we take

the ax. Marbled inside
             the original stem. We were
                          born we don't know when.

Emily Rosko, "Timbered" from Prop Rockery. Copyright © 2012 by Emily Rosko.  Reprinted by permission of University of Akron Press.
Source: Prop Rockery (University of Akron Press, 2012)
More Poems by Emily Rosko