Every time I see two trees standing on a lawn,
One branch as a hanging bridge framing dawn,
I think they’re dancing their slow dance of trees,
With minor adjustments made by the breeze.
One four count might take ten years,
In music not made for our fast ears.
My grandpa took a pictures as he thought so,
Every single month, in the evening glow,
He did so till his son turned fifty,
Made a flick book of the movement drifty.
He saw the tango of the birches in the yard,
One two three in times soft and hard,
The year grandma died, they took a small bow,
When dad was born, a skyward bough.
Grandpa tired out and the trees bowed again,
The trees still dancing. When? Now and then.