November Trees

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Bernheim Forest

The forest doesn’t bury its dead
But stands among them—
Last year’s leaves curled at its feet
The fallen logs of its kind.

If the trees murmur or sigh
Crack or groan
It is only the wind.
The trees themselves are silent.

In all their grace
And terrible nakedness they symbolize
Nothing. They are beyond us.
How can we bear it?