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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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