The Dogwoods (in the evening)

The dogwoods are turning red again
slowly like
the apples
in my parents' tiny orchard
a brown-red russet
smoothness, roughly-smooth
on my cheek.
under the dogwoods' leaves
last year
I cried out
like a dying bird
from the center of
the tiny cage of
my mind
and the dogwoods
listened.
This year
I listen to them
as I stroll with my hands
in my pockets
and they speak of peace
and times and seasons
for things
and the transitory nature of life
and the quiet setting of suns
over a million landscapes.

These trees know me well.
the dogwoods were my grandmother
Felicia's favorite tree,
and these were her dogwoods
and perhaps for that reason
these dogwoods have always been kind to me,
spreading their branches over me
as I walk through the grass
to my childhood home.