Les plus lus ▸
Dave Bonta
as if at the event horizon
of a black hole
we go
to extreme lengths
out on a twig
i see asterisks as halos
i twitter like a finch
in a cage
you are
beside yourself
an angel of anxiety
in perpetual molt
let’s feather our nest
with eviction notices
get to the bottom
of this hope chest
Standing outside my front door on this rainy night is the closest thing to a son or daughter I’ll ever have: an eastern red cedar tree, which I found and transplanted when it was one or two years old back in 1993, and has since grown into a bit of a monster, towering over the house. The old place in Maine where we lived till I was five had a number of juniper bushes in the former pasture, where I used to play a lot, and I think that’s what appealed to me about having a closely related species right by the door. And sure, I knew it would turn into a tree rather than a bush, but I still thought it would stay on the small side. It hasn’t — much to the delight of roosting songbirds. I have to prune branches that rub against the roof, but still, on stormy nights, I hear it thump, thump, thumping against the house.
Might this crane, stilled,
suggest a cat at attention,
triangular head?
Left hand like a starfish
watch it long enough, sensibly,
it may move an arm.
One cedar tree branch
bent like a worm, much older
than this argument
They call the busman
“driver”–that formality
cracks in my own throat.
Thick plaid headgear,
brown beard, thick glasses–a voice
like the end of the world.
She waves, the bus goes,
When they returned from building the kay-dam
(of logs and drift pins, to make again
a place where salmon might yet spawn)
they divvied up: each hauled a pack frame
loaded with tools and sundries, twice down
the canyon to its end, then up the old fire trails
a mile and a half, ducking vine maples
all the way, to the parked trucks. A third trip
for each would end the business,
but night came on, as it generally does;
they might have come back another day, but
as the moon was full, down they went.
One folded and refolded the old tent
and packed it away, while the others sat,
taking down the old sheepherder stove,
dumping ashes, talking. She would walk ahead,
Rich, honored by my fellow citizens,
The father of many children, born of a noble mother,
All raised there
In the great mansion—house, at the edge of town.
Note the cedar tree on the lawn!
I sent all the boys to Ann Arbor, all of the girls to Rockford,
The while my life went on, getting more riches and honors—
Resting under my cedar tree at evening.
The years went on.
I sent the girls to Europe;
I dowered them when married.
I gave the boys money to start in business.
They were strong children, promising as apples
Before the bitten places show.
But John fled the country in disgrace.
Jenny died in child-birth—
You stand between the cedars and the green spruces.
Brilliantly naked.
And I think :
What are you,
A gem under sunlight ?
A poised spear ?
A jade cup ?
You flash in front of the cedars and the tall spruces.
And I see that you are fire —
Sacrificial fire on a jade altar.
Spear-tongue of white, ceremonial fire.
My eyes burn.
My hands are flames seeking you.
But you are as remote from me as a bright pointed planet
Set in the distance of an evening sky.
Earth tips to the west
And the hills lean backward —
Cedar-trees
Hugging the hillsides.
Smoke drifts in the valley —
The pinto sun
Nickers over the gate
Of the home corral.