Caught up
In the furious winding
Of the wheel,
You took them for granted —
The cool shadow cast
By green and gold leaves
That danced and sang for you
In the slightest breeze;
The bare branches
That wept in a winter rain;
The subtle flowers
That measured the quickening blood.

To know is to nourish, but —
Caught up in crooked
Self-portrait —
You chose not to see.

Rigid, you mixed a cement —
Sand and stone
And your own conceptions —
And were dismayed
When the wild root
Cracked the surface.

At last,
In the waning day,
You took a moment
(Recorded by the sweeping secondhand).
You blessed her.
You spared her
One quick glance,
And you saw —
Not the 99 bursting branches —
But a single diseased stem —
At the top of one outstretched thought.

You know what you chose then,
In the sunken light.
The axe.
The denial.
And the burial of so much time.
There is no need to repeat it.

But now,
As the crows wheel and wail
Through the gray sky
She used to punctuate,
I can’t help but lament
All that forsaken,
Deep beauty.



About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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