Among the Trees

In a forest, I rarely
speak to trees. A guest there,
I don't want to interrupt
their conversations.

Pine trees: often
the chattiest, gesturing
with boughs. Oaks
mumble, if that.

Old shaggy cedars
withdraw from gab,
cover themselves
in green resin blankets.

Stern fir trees speak
judgmentally, telling
neighbors to straighten
out their posture.

I think of all the roots down
there, arboreal working class.
They groan, grip rocks,
in darkness mine for water.

hans ostrom 2024

It Is What It Isn't

It's a cocoa cacophony,
a chocolate noise.
It's a bluish red
flower, a purple poise.

It's a fanciful
thing like an
invisible ring.
It's the notion

that we might make
a forest in our minds,
go there, and wander
beneath giant trees,

if we should so please.


hans ostrom 2019