Poem: Tree

The blistered shadow sprouts with crooked back –
a homeomorphic echo of songs pursuing
the rhythm of memory-dusted bone.
Trinkets packed away, so the smiles
and tears can be surrendered to time.

Slender fingers applaud the bladed currents;
exposed skin, painting faults against the sky –
cradling dormant frames of childhood,
with their trinkets and down; innocent whorls
Still.

In the last weeks of the year the birds return,
dark strokes of oil still finding their shape,
but bringing the songs back with them.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s