By Trish Saunders
Nobody in this little town is still alive
who remembers me
as a young girl
except the stumps on our farm—
elms, Douglas firs, and maples
cut down by ancestors
and sold down the Snohomish River.
When I was a God-struck little kid
on a hard chair in Sunday school
I could see their leaves shimmering
through the windows,
unheavened,
and wondered,
is God in here, or out there?
My time marked ‘before’ is drawing nearer.
I am okay with vanishing with the trees.
About the author
Trish Saunders's poems are published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Eunoia, Gargoyle, Open Arts Forum, and the late lamented Fat Damsel, among other publications. She lives in Seattle