Listen

The cloister of oak
moan, birch hiss
timber ceilings
creek syllables of sound
thrashing like hopeful
thrushes in the understory.

So, too, fingers of breeze
tune the harp of trees
sugar feeds
future springs.

Scarlet maple leaves
wither into wonder
whether man can birth poems
as surely as oak bear acorns
or whether impatience
will pound nutgall

into brown ink
and revive
triumphs
enacted on
the forest floor.

So, to the earth we bend,
enormous branches split
from the same tree
and soil.

Pines whisper
it’s Christmas
saints and sinners
gather in cathedral pews
under pearly lights
statuary guard the
altar.

So, the pantoum tries
to force order, domesticate
the natural world, but
fails locution.

Poets sit in
darkness,
recall the susurration
in a forest of firs
needles like tears hang
roots rise harmonious
to meet unnamed stars
all leaves reverberate
strike sibilant fires
fill dreams with words
write poems
on sky.

Published December 23, 2020