A Cargo of Green Hearts
no tree grows straight it's true not even those mathematical pines that rise like beams
and hold the sky at ninety degrees, all trees twist like corkscrews as they grow
wound like wrung bedsheets the spiral often too subtle for the jackleg mortal eye
each and every one no matter the species turns itself tightly into the air
with a kundolini spin or perhaps perception you lie and it is only the universe which turns
and the trees, our tall and quiet neighbors simply shift to face it, observant as sunflowers
tracking the sun. no matter for us humans, who burn and plant and nail board to board but
sometimes I see it in their lengthy dead after the bark has been shorn by buck-toothed beetles
the imprint of time, a muscular spiral, a turntable upon which the needle of creation scratched
round and round the xylem bones and I think how shortly we the people live how
few turns the circling sun promises us how we pirouette once twice thrice before the eternal
dancer lets go our tiny hands.
Poems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below.
Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.