April 25th, 2006

pencil

for April, they tell me, is poetry month


People like trees

are growing things
easily bent in sapling warp
less easily straightened
though strong in the stead
of redemptive curves wrought
by inexorable sun.

Coaxing monstrous twists beautiful
outside the trauma of bonsai
is another trick of the light,
a further length of years
retraining the heartwood,
replacing pruning cuts.

So much complex minutia
from which to sort
the faint brilliant song.
A cacophony of shadows
breeding distrust of pale:
ashes rather than dawn.