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That time of year thou mayst
I hate to look upon
the land—to see how
strange a perfection
is a year’s time.
From the yard
this night comes.
Age is my canary,
a root sent to bed.
Poemas sobre el tema: root
Poemas sobre el tema «root» en Poets.by.
Sinking Valley
we climbed down
to the birthplace of water
bloodroot
wild ginger
sang
roots stretched into crevasses
limestoned voices
inaudible over
the gasp & suck
a scum of flotsam in the gullet
we crouched in the sun
blood-colored flowers
whitewater curling back
& back we prayed
for a rain of calcium
another sky opened
Some Disassembly Required
perhaps one wouldn’t
call it metamorphosis
the shift of sandstone
back into sand
prized free by frost
or fungal enzymes
grain by grain more gradual
than an hourglass
though so much
less reversible
but why only prize changes
made under pressure
it’s years of weather
that unfather us
daily hammer blows
that shape our addictions
Knifeless knife
hot summer night
itching even where
nothing itches
wind from the west the sound of metal striking metal
I found a knife in the woods. Or more accurately, I found an old, tooled leather sheath for a knife with the remains of a hilt sticking out of it.
The Hollow (28)
road-bank beech tree
skinny roots hanging on
to each other
an exclusive crowd of beeches
smart gray bark
yet to canker
inward-looking
a beech tree’s eye-
shaped scars
even by day
the beech grove retains
something of the moon
The Hollow (10)
birch roots
turned stilts
a hollow in the shape of a stump
desire path
deer cutting across
this trench of a trail
raised high in a claw
of upturned roots
an ordinary rock
smooth sandstone
the empty seas of the first
great extinction
The Hollow (5)
ark ark
so many ways of saying here
in Raven
the aging spruces
still stand where we planted them
their insurgent roots
rings of mushrooms
between the lines of trees
one woodfern waving
shaggy manes
imagine the sweet release
of autodigestion
7 March
paper birch trees can only bend
so far before they break
under the weight of freezing rain
rhododendron leaves
tough as old scrolls are stripped
by starving deer
but some always resprout from the roots
having who knows how many
lifetimes of practice
Remnant
An oak tree toppled
in a high wind 20 years ago
has rotted almost to nothing,
leaving just the twist of roots—
spokes of a rimless wheel,
crippled star.
As if whatever hardness
kept this clutch from holding tight
now won’t let it go.
Reach
After a hundred years of reaching
for the same, small portion
of filtered sunlight,
these three witch hazel trunks
have begun to merge. The ground bulges
over their common roots.
Back home, you stretch
a measuring tape from hand to hand
along your outstretched arms.
Spruce grove
A brown-striped breast feather
floats down from a high bough
in the spruce grove
where some hawk or owl
plucked a grouse. The outermost
trees rock in the wind.
I step carefully as a bridegroom
over each raised
threshold of root.
Return
A rock raised up
by the roots of
a wind-thrown oak—
nothing unusual,
just a dark red
chunk of bedrock
gripped by a trio
of roots with black
cracked bark—
I saw it had been
washed clean by
who knows how
many storms & still
held aloft, as if in
some parting gesture
toward the celestial