Monday, August 15, 2011


The tree had been afraid,
until her fruit fell, she was all alone.
But the hot wind was a warm wind
when she saw the seeds and bite marks
and the stained ground.

Holding his ears and tears
in the pale corners of his eyes, he said,
There are too many axes,
what’s the use of another?

I told him to look up
at the high arms spread for silent destruction,
hands wide and hiding the light
from hungry shrubs.

The sun, having sighed too many nights
alone, decided that for every glory-width
that being stretched
are two at least for being-with.
This was huge for a huge man—
Big men are tempted to be loved
alone, forgetting their friends.
But the sun is far from his friends,
and praised because he is far from his friends,
who seem so small in endless space, but
he is the small one, really.
So he started loving the little earth he feeds
and faces, extending a kind arm,
a tender hand.