Angry

For too damn long
I have wanted the boughs of silence
to count for the everything that they should

for deep rooted dreaming, for the power of birch
oak, elm and evergreen speech
to move in the winds of others,

for the smell of juniper to ring clean
and rid what rests at the cliff’s edge waiting.

Yet I wait,
as the leaves may wait, as the branches may wait,

as the trees wait –

their silence loud in stubbornness –

their immortality, seemingly, forever our image of always.

And when the sound of a single crumbling comes back,
from any distance,
I will rise up and speak for the waiting, for the angry.

If you were to listen you would hear –

I am not forever.