Monday, November 19, 2012

cutting trees

cutting trees

for Rob Plath

there is blood
only-

it is a stain
of gold sap,

so we don’t recognize
it to be just that-

and its acrid scent
too strong

desperate as a sad song-

when everything is gone.

the rings
of time

soaked in blood,
just a knub

with ghost limbs
surely swaying still.
 

1 comment:

  1. I'm swaying from a blood-soaked tree in the Middle Ages with this one.

    You transcend so much mysticism with so few words it astounds.

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