On the colour of trees I have this to say:
The rivulets of bark are slipped into structure and tricked crystalline by age.
On the bird mouths and the green-jay's call I have nothing to say.
With the cloud-stacked horizon bloodied again, what is the touch of shadow
curled over bark scales and tree feathers and all chloroplasted over?
Is there a tired sun engine? Is it lightest in the slow turn of gears? Glycerine springs
in burning spurts and we win the trees in the Pyrrhic fashion. On the ashes I
will not speak; on the lights I have nothing to say.
No comments:
Post a Comment