At root, at deep root they meet,
the honey-locust out at McCoy Creek,
the Valley oak above the barn
at Kishamish, the large-armed
horsechestnut that stood on our street
towering with white torches in late May,
Coast Range firs that green the wind with pollen,
dwarfed and gnarled flowering plums
of childhood, all of them, fallen
or standing, ancient forests before Rome
and shadowy woodlands yet to come,
they rise from the same deep root,
leaf out in the one light of day.