The Sheltering of Trees
Free verse
In a flash this rag doll zigs and zags
like a scarecrow on a silver pond. The call
of voices from the earthen dead
arise and howl, frothing while we fall
one foot grieving and the other bold.
Is her mood fresh or worn? Some afternoons she steps with elan, white-haired, or trips on a mess of uncut curls, and either way
midsummer spins like a ruddy comet to its grave.
I drive past
a store I loved, its owner dead.
The timing of the gods is vague and plum, so I pull over
for a visit to the old age home.
I calculate the cost in minutes as I do it all in reverse,
for the perfect parking space.
I want rest: I’m up at night.
My bones and I drive along, feeling guests
on peculiar streets as woodsmoke incense crushes us.
The pale sky lights up with leaves. It’s dark too soon in my backyard.
I trade a TV screen for the sheltering of trees.
I don’t hunt but shotgun blasts remind me it’s all flesh
this time of year. I feed
on sugar while the…
