fallen trees at switchback trail

i go to the dead & ask what they have seen.
the switchback trail follows the old coal car route 
that used to haul earth guts to every fire
they could. cities blazed with these organs.
holes in the mountain. 
the storm took down so many limbs.
arms & fingers on the crooked path.
oak leaves like eyelids. 
one tree answers me, "all the smoke." i reply,
"what sound did the sky used to make?"
the trees answer with a soft whistle. 
now heaven is a static tv. i plug my ears 
when i'm out for too long. another tree explains,
"we used to be children." i tell him,
"i used to be children too." remember the day
my brother & i saw a tree topple over
in a late autumn storm. we told her,
"no! please no!" roots & all. in the roots
i saw we saw wedding rings & maybe even
a telephone. what we didn't know
is that all the trees are always talking
to each other & to the old gods & to 
the dead. i don't remember what we did
after the collapse. i should have talked
to the tree though. i should have asked,
"did you decide to fall or did your body
know it was time?" i ask because i am 
a little storm spirit. we live in a time
of endless feet. the underworld sitting
on park benches. i want to collect the pieces.
bring the dead trees home & make my own
frankenstein's tree. birch gills & oak heart.
instead i try to just sit with them.
i rest on the torso of a great maple. 
i ask, "do you mind that i sit here?"
he replies, "we're all wood here."