--- W E S   M U L L E N

The winds are nice up here,
under such an open sky as this one.
I recline here with my brothers 
on round, new leaves and springy wood.

Just below me I can see my parents
loafing in the green shadows
as they admire the foliage.  Grandma
has one foot in a hole she has carved

in her fat, browning limb, and she
is grumpy at all the noise coming
from Uncle Charlie The Drunk,
who is hauling away at something

with a chainsaw.  We all glance
downward from time to time, down
to where the thick trunks disappear
into the darkness, but we are not

afraid.  Here in this tree it is all
relative, we are all strapped to the 
lattice together.  Even you, reader;
holler up and you will find me.