Broken Tree

 

 

Was it the sun that broke this limb

as it stumbled over the hill?

Was it the moon or a wayward cloud

whose traces ooze sap still?

 

Dead leaves on dry brown branches now hide

and crush the mock orange below,

while the solomon's seal seems unperturbed

and nods its black bells in a row.

 

Is that tree wounded, or is it now free

to reveal its insides to our widening sight?

Is it a lover, broad arms open wide

or legs spread to receive delight?

 

Or is it I, a mote of consciousness,

trapped in meat, walking on the hill,

making the backyard into something more difficult,

as if it were just some blank to fill.

 

The tree is not empty, not waiting for me

or anyone to frame it in a painting or rhyme.

The hillside is complete and needs no marginal scrawl,

no paraphrase to glow green and sublime.

 

Broken tree, withered bush, purple vervain, and slope.

Six feet from the ground, my thoughts fade,

words frozen, mouth open. The hill finds me

So like that tree. Each poem is mutual, each poem is a trade.

 

© 2000 Gregor Everitt