Mark Saba

The Trees Know My Name

The trees know my name.
I hear it in the wind
that rustles their branches
as I walk by. If I become immersed
in my own thoughts they beckon me
with a gentle creaking, having passed it
from one to another along deep roots.

They only do this when I am alone
when the green and blue ceiling
breaks open, a barred owl hoots,
and turkeys dart across the road.
The further I walk, the more they hold out
their tangled arms to me, wanting
my company. The more they convince me
that theirs is the world I belong to
that I could walk forever around the globe
and never know another, that their wish,
transmitted in silence, reaches all of us
one walk at a time.

I Can’t Breathe

At 4 AM I awaken to wonder
if I am breathing. I inhale deeply.
The air pushes reluctantly
into my lungs. I must push it
back out.

I've never had to do this before.
In mid-afternoon I gaze up
to our cathedral ceiling.
But it's not high enough to contain
my emotions. My past hangs

up there, those days when I never considered
how to breathe. When I could freely inhale
the breaths of others, feel the cool space
that brushed our skin just before
we touched. No more going about my business.

I used to do well in confined spaces.
Now there is never space enough.
Those in solitary confinement
breathe for me. Children in cages
define my space. I'm sure

you feel this too.