The trees know it has happened like this
many times before. History is a cycle.
And they know the cold will come,
they know they must suffer the punishment of those
pomegranate seeds (glowing like fire
in the palm of your hand)
but they protest.
They burn.
They are
crying out against the inevitability
of their fate,
like stars in nova,
they are
crying out that they will no longer be
allowed to dance,
to sway with the wind,
to be kissed by the sun,
and so they burn. They are protesting
the passage of time.
(They are protesting the spinning of
the earth.)