The Trees

                                                 - Adrienne  Rich

The trees inside are moving out into the forest, 

the forest that was empty all these days 

Where no bird could sit

no insect hide

no sun bury its feet in shadow 

the forest that was empty all these nights 

will be full of trees by morning. 

All night the roots work 

to disengage themselves from the cracks

in the veranda floor. 

The leaves strain toward the glass

small twigs stiff with exertion 

long -cramped boughs stuffing under the roof like newly discharged patients

half-dazed, moving

to the clinic doors. 

                   

I sit inside,  doors open to the veranda 

writing long letters

in which I scarcely mention the departure

of the forest from the house. 

The night is fresh, the whole moon shines

in a sky still open. 

the smell of leaves and lichen

still reaches like a voice into the rooms. 

My head is full of whispers 

which tomorrow  will  be silent. 

Listen. The glass is breaking. 

The trees are stumbling forward

into the night.  Winds  rush to meet them. 

The moon is broken  like a mirror, 

its pieces flash now in the crown

of