Saturday, November 23, 2013

A wandering tree

Was there a face in the whirling wood
or a knot in the wick of a weeping candle?
To whom did the words belong, to the clinging bush,
or to the wind, its adversary?

When I leapt down the hill like mountain goat,
were the kinnikinnick berries full of eyes?
Did you sense me searching for you,
up-ending lichen-scarred rocks?

When I sank into sleep,
the leaves were summer-green;
I awoke to autumn's flicker-dance.
Was it the thought of your shadow
that brought me back to breath?

That plunge into a snow-melt summit lake,
the flat-bottom smooth stones and burning gasp,
were they decreed, so my skin might unfold,
like a curl of birch bark, to caress your hand?

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