Poetry from Brianna Dawn.

the last walks of trees

they know our footsteps
and the grasp of bird toes
they know the prick and sting
when we take their blossoms
and fruit, which grow –
they slowed their walk, and
they laced their fingers and
knees into the soil’s face, to
hold the earth together, when it
was crouching down, low,
as rain rushed across it, trying to erase
her eyes and cheeks
stretching across the surface of
the skies and waters and
crowns of mountains –
and one day, trees never again
could be seen walking with
people against the wind
or strolling near river bends
staying in one place, quietly
working, to mend the earth’s
heart again

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