Sad Song of Trees Swaying a Female Figure

No broom can sweep up

fragments of a broken

 

heart.  A barren branch

doesn’t move the splinters of shattered

 

glass.  It stays splintered

in the chest, every beat a stabbing

 

from within.  Everything is fractal.  The world is

nothing more than patterns: glasses

 

lining a cupboard from largest

to smallest, dishes stacked

 

by size.  The cupboard nothing but a box

made of dead wood.  Each knot a mile

 

marker for the passing of time.  Behaviors

repeating year after year, decades praying

 

for dust to dust.  Every neglected tear

from that shadow of a woman fills rain barrels

 

for children’s songs, but you never want to be her

 

best friend, you never want to come out to play

with her.  Sullen in the shade of the menacing tree

 

line of a dense forest—listening for the crack of breaking

limbs to run under—she will become a specter

 

forevermore.  The wind will carry her to become one

with a crippled mountain sitting there waiting

 

to have its top blown to bits in a furious lust

to steal every smidgen of energy.

Advertisements

2 Comments

  1. There’s some intriguing lines in the poem…well as least for me…one that struck me was “The cupboard nothing but a box
    made of dead wood. Each knot a mile marker for the passing of time…” …do love the lines you write.


Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s