Saturday, November 30, 2013



“Try,” said the sun
to the autumn tree,
and draped harvest warmth
on its withering.

     And nothing was changed
     in the tree’s sinking.

“Try,” said a brown-backed      
bee in spring,                              
scrabbling to sip
from a threadbare bloom.

     And nothing was changed
     in the tree’s slow ruin.

“Try,” said the summertime
child who played,
climbing crooked limbs,
dreaming dappled shade.

     And nothing was changed
     and the child grew away.     

“Don’t try,” said a star
a thousand years burst.
“My afterlife’s gleam         
ignites the frost.” 

     And nothing was changed  
     by duration’s boast.

“Don’t try,” said a root
in the secret soil.
“When green, you split rock.  
Now lean with the gale.”

     And nothing was changed
     and the tree toppled whole.

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