Sunday, June 17, 2012
the memory of winter trees
The memory of winter trees
The season’s news was bombs and numbers killed.
The river tied and untied itself, slipping
the grip of rocks and hiding one icy wing
under another -- then another -- prolific and wild
as bird or angel, not fallen but felled
and rapt with attention to its own nothing --
the shifting yield of depth and current, in-folding
down, earthward, sky on its back sheer and rippled.
Snow gleamed. The little I walked past formal trees
that stiffened their veins against frigid air
and held life close, a wet thread through the core.
The nest of wire in my chest rang and breathed
a cold that burned blood from my lungs, that grieved
my mouth to silence like the gasp of distant war.