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Other Woods
If you cherish the old tree of Calvary, I don’t mind. But don’t mind me as I wander in other woods. Come Easter, I read poems in a random forest. If the trees listen, they don’t tell. But it is enough to let my voice catch in their crowns, to be held there a moment, and then dissolve into the sonic weave of birdsong, branch creak, and claw scuff; then fall into that silence language can only ghost-- myriad, endless, great with becoming. I breathe in leaf rot and snowmelt, savor it as I will the air liquored with hyacinth, the lilac and peony; the rose, blooded or pale, scented with citrus or redolent of wine. The cold still grips me in a long good-bye, but soon it will open its fist, and I will stretch with the days, rousing like a bear urgent to find where she dreamt herself snout-deep in blackberries. You see, I wander in other woods, and even now, the green burns bright here and there, calling the light home. |