Trees tell us our names to us if we listen.

Tonight, the trees are ours
Love. These trees must know our names by now.
In case we forgot them. Or they, their’s.
This blue green silent slick glow of misty evening on leaf tips
memory knows itself
Well enough to know us, still, I’m sure.
On their christening evergreen branches, hanging under unseen weights-power lines and man-made magic-on our own behalf.
Silence and the knowing of our names, speaks freshly in wetness
Eternal us, the trees in our streetlights
Certainly see and re-call Face to faces us.
For we named them as kids
And now rejoice in recalling our own names again,
Called out by our older elder tree
Friends. We all
Broken iced branches at night, sing our names despite us,
Fall slowly as poems through mid air, forgetfully unread,
As rain at night through the branches of an old cold tree.
We each have names, and trees tell us ours on certain nights,
If ya listen well, at least to trees my Love.