on the wooden screen
of a sycamore
in the breeze
A rose was lost amongst the trees.
I hear your voice above the street:
It’s been so long, but still you speak.
The shadows move and hide the rose.
The clouds are made of hills and you wait beneath the hills, above the snow line, up where the words begin to lose their worth.
And now I feel the stillness flow,
And radiate, then settle down.
The fight against this life was lost.
This life, this moving stillness cast.
you are never still. You took a pose and shifted weight, and smiled as if the smile meant more than being
The weight we carry on these feet,
That plank of wood on which we lye:
Can emptiness be hard to bear?
These shadows on a wooden screen.
Deep in a valley –
so deep you wouldn’t know it was there from above
– the spring flowers came just a little later than elsewhere.
The rose grew taller in the dark.
A blackbird sang, a robin sang:
A calling for a distant sun.
The rose would reach it, inch by inch.
This is not about forgetting, nor resting, nor putting by. This living here is never done, amongst the hills, amongst the trees. The snows of late spring never last more than a day or two.
The shadows of a sycamore
Are patterns of a gentle breeze,
Are patterns of a distant sun,
Are here, are now, and always so.