There’s a tree that bleeds on the hill,
Or so they say. Each time
In the valley a tree is cut or a branch
Broken, a leaf plucked, it bleeds.
Now, I have crossed the river
And taken the roving path
Across the valley. There’s no tree
Where they said it stood.
It must have become
A piece of wood
Or a chair or table
A window frame or door knob.
Someone has even thoughtfully
Gouged out its roots—there’s only a mount
Of burnt grass here.
The sun is setting beyond the valley.
The river has darkened.
And now in the distant hills
All trees are bleeding, all day.