If the weeping birch sold its shade,
I’d be a regular customer
charmed by the long belts of bark
peeling from its trunk in curls.
Neighborhood children would interview me
and stay when they saw my
pockets full of stickers
ransacked from drawers in my cluttered classroom.
I’d trade them for confidential stories,
and visions of tomorrow whispered beneath
a blur of branches that disappear
in morning’s fog
as the paper bark,
brazen in its whiteness,
sings out loud.
Brenda Warren 2012
Visit The Sunday Whirl.