The forest has turned to bone,
skeletal trees thrusting up from a pool of dead leaves,
sharp as spears, ready to rend flesh,
to open the bodies we sow but never return to reap.
Our tears will salt the earth above,
to keep the dark bloom beneath it from growing.
The roots of the trees sink deep, drink.
When the leaves finally return,
they whisper in voices we almost remember,
but we callus our hearts against the handle of the ax,
and its blade knows the thirst that only trees know.
Trees want what all growing things want:
to be cloven in two and returned to the earth,
to become still, to feel complete in the stillness.

07/09/2013

Posted on 07/09/2013
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