Published by Sorenlit 11 26 21
White bones on warped and crooked frames hang
elegaic and heavy, with storied groanings
and countless lessons.
We hear only the crack and pop of frail limbs breaking-
We do not hear their voices or see the beauty of
the fragant dogwoods yet to bud and bloom.
Why can we not recall the heft and sweet fragrance of
their mature timbers,
all around in the shadows of the temple?
The lean-they wait-they endure-and bear ice with grace.
The icicles drip down the seconds, hours and minutes
of our very lives-
the cool water we will not drink.
For these riches-are these anciens to be despised,
cut down? Left for firewood to be consumed and forgotten?
Perhaps we have forgotten who was always there
to shelter us from the rain,
Or in whose mighty laps we sat,
Or who was there to point our way
out of forests dark.
Is is too late to ask them
What they witnessed before you came?
Even though they are weighted by snow and clasped by ice-
ideas teem within, concepts, memories,
of battles fought and lost-or won-
and faint-oh so faint memories
Do not hate the snow,
it, too, is a promise.
Perhaps before these charcoal-anointed trunks
are bent down and burnt,
we will not rush to the next attraction-
the larger parade-
or try to read the last page first to determine
the outcome of their story,
but breathlessly wait for the Spring.