I walked the cedar trails of Morse Mountain
Yesterday, solemn knowledge in my bones,
And blanketed grief beneath a certain
Old Slippery Elm. His branches reached stones
I used to throw with my father, before
Cancer stole from generations like leaves
Windswept while green, what we try to ignore.
Acceptance blooms like rubra flowers — ease
My troubled skin, and give me quiet hope
In the form of vibrant cardinal trills.
My spine turns to paper. Grand periscopes
Of things revealed as my brittle roots still:
Creation comes in cyclical stages —
What small joys will be made from my pages.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
I walked the cedar trails of Morse Mountain
Yesterday, solemn knowledge in my bones,
And blanketed grief beneath a certain
Old Slippery Elm. His branches reached stones
I used to throw with my father, before
Cancer stole from generations like leaves
Windswept while green, what we try to ignore.
Acceptance blooms like rubra flowers — ease
My troubled skin, and give me quiet hope
In the form of vibrant cardinal trills.
My spine turns to paper. Grand periscopes
Of things revealed as my brittle roots still:
Creation comes in cyclical stages —
What small joys will be made from my pages.
