Stopping by trees

I pass the trees each morning—
They call to me,
whispering in my ear
as trucks rush by,
they wave dark branches at me,
and I look, longingly
at how they reach through clouds
to touch the glowing sky,
or silver themselves at sunrise
when grass frosts
in early morning dew,
then greens at their feet in sunlight
—that impossible green
alight with all growing things—
and in late afternoon,
they turn dark, their arching shapes
filled with mystery
as clouds rimmed with gold
wash the hills with fading light.
I love them in spring
when they green,
and in summer, when hills bronze,
and grasses glow and dance
around their silhouettes.
They steal my heart,
out there on the horizon,
wide as my dreams,
pulsing with hidden life.

And at 55 I skim by them
each day, wishing for a place to stop,
to look up into their branches,
climb up in their embrace.
I pass them by
in continuous regret,