Saturday, May 13, 2017

Come Hither, The Beech Has a Story

The old beech to the sky,
Roots to shoots, capillaries make rain.
Roland’s axe stood alone, rust along the blade,
left behind with the house and the woodpile.

The road is open, his legs only now tired.
Walking, he’s been walking so long, forgotten
where he’s going, gold braids on his shoulders, 
melancholy, clueless.  His belly, queasy.
  
Roots to shoots, capillaries whisper lament -
Wherein, what-for, the harbinger, a turtle dove,
Maybird sends it to comb the wilds, to be her eyes,
her herald. She sent word weeks ago.

Wherein, what-for, his diviner, the moon,
loves to vex his memory, spin webs, dark penumbras.
Each morning, his head rings in wood thrush,
anon he fingers frayed epaulets, a strand of her hair.

Shoots to roots, Maybird laces a cotton bodice.
Within the bones of her corset, rides a secret --
Roland was never hers, she never his.
One is shimmer, the other a bell.

Wherein, what-for, the vigil, a companion,
she shepherds a season, watches, waits,
as furrows of routine terrace his absence.
Crows mock her patience, she disagrees.                                         

The moon grows fickle, Roland is restored.
This is an old, old tale. refugee returns for his bride,
he tucks a piece of bread in his pocket.  
Back and forth - saplings, briers everywhere.

Shoots to roots, mycelium sip sunlight,
Roland recalls her scent, rosemary and rain, 
bouquet to whet an axe's appetite,
a road to open, Maybird, his home.

A silver coin on the floor, something is shifted,
the cinders litter a long winter gone.
Once there were cake crumbs, then greedy sparrows.
Restless days overrated, and the door.

Wherein, what-for, Maybird's heart, a copperhead,
quiet in the leaves tasting the air. 
His desire is a dragonfly, life in four parts.
They hunt together, every evening new.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bless the beech who holds this story, 
beware the moon, its greedy sparrow.
She's the shimmer, he's the bell,
an old axe, a dappled afternoon.

All the Trees Will Die & Then So Will You

When we are broadsided,
by really the most dreadful news,
moments that frighten breath, so it
tangles itself among ribs, pleading
don’t make me go out there,
red rain, rip tide!

Intrepid heart, storm dancer
gather a deep gasp. Let it pry loose
the diaphragm, push out the coward breath - 
feckless guinea hen
diaspora of wasps. It can be sustenance of elsewhere.

And allow no anxious intruder
to hunker down,
taking premise that suffering
can homestead here – no rank chatter
to foul the bright pump-house,
banging about tongue and bellows.

This moment, married to eternity,
dances with glaciers, typhoons, diatoms, kudzu.
And death was never a stranger,
maybe alchemist, liberator, owl.
Even so we live on, and
again like the trees.