This crooked timber set deep in these bones
Oh, when the wind blows how they wail, they moan
“Such a fine day for this human design
to wither, to char”. Unpicked fruit on the vine
lingers in sight such a tempting insult
to all we once were, before this result
was tempered by the unyielding seasons
and bone branches creaking for numerous reasons
cling to hold fast, but cannot hold on;
they drop like the fruit, lost and forgotten.
The wind does not care for wind never stops
the branches still creak, still grow old, they still rot.
The winds it blows on, to be bent is to crack
The fruit doesn’t know this, never looks back
to where the wind came from, wind never creeps
but like deadened roots sunk deep in the creek
searches for stones that they mistook for seeds
not held in the murk, carried off on the breeze.
Forget seeds and fruit, leaves or trees under
which we now lie, feeding bones to the sky
The wind won’t uproot you, no earth can unshake
endless regret for on eggshells we quake
at the notion of another long day
trying to reach through the stars in our way
trying to feel for the warmth of the sun
for deep in these bones we know there is none
this crooked timber when set to the rack
will remind these bones there is no way back.