"It was the wind." "The rain." Each spoke
a part of truth out of his own mouth
with words that could not make it whole
because the naked roots showed
how much there was to doubt,
the secret in the darkness crying loud.
Even a tree, she thought, biting her tongue
and bringing her childish thoughts down,
remembering the climbs, the stout swing hung
on rafters soaring to the sun,
a tree built like a tower
so you could visit God and talk for hours.
The men sawed logs and timber all that day
until there was nothing left, not
even a shadow where you could wait
and hide to see if it would wake,
then they buried the hole and forgot
what else they might have covered with the sod.
Dead trees tell no tales, she thought,
nor empty nests, nor little girls who see
how helpless all things are when caught
by storm, no matter how big or
strong or secure, and she walked quietly
into the house to help with the next meal.
THE CAGE
Thoughts like an empty cage
receive the morning
through the windowpane
and quietly swing.
No flutter brings my eye
to a meaninged core
for the waking light,
the door transparent.
Held blind by the mirror
and deaf by the bell,
I must search my mind
by taste, smell, and touch.
Bars silhouette a wall
to enclose the noon
where images halt
and the night soon comes.