8:2:08::12:32am

I only whisper to the trees
In such an age of breaking measure,
they need no ears to hear me
Not even rain to sustain the ash of roots and bark
they have finally become
For nothing can kill a thing so wise.
The dead towers who politely,
so nicely,
hold their umbrella forever
over my rusted statue
I, the tin man,
who should not have been born with a voice box to speak
And to politely,
so nicely,
whisper poems to the trees.