We, the silver birch.
Villagers say we are The Three Sisters.
Too shy to stand alone,
we grow close,
our arms arch, embracing.
Dresses of silver bark, but somehow
strips seem slashed.
Small minds assume we’re
sullied. We keep our secrets.
Swaying, singing-psithurism.
Say it. You may listen, sure.
Hushed, we whisper secrets to
each other from the bible of birch trees.
Published in Poetica Review, Autumn 2022 (PDF)
