Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Trees Communicate in an Old Language

Into silence a voice.
How weird is that?

Sun snipped by the tallest
building in a small town.

Roads tugging cars through
the curves and straightaways.

And a voice caresses trees
leaning to the turgid river.

Snow hangs to eaves then fades–
illusions of motion.

Words fall in drifts across
the table which separates us.

We can hold a wake for spring
or anticipate sap running through maples.

Occasional streams of melting
snow–dammed conversations.