November

In November limbs are still Thin against the dying light From sylvan vale to hill Poised in forms for us, contrite Pergola bare with thorn The knuckles of the hemlock worn Expansive loomed leaf arbor's torn Preparing for winters blight in hibernation To discover the divination of dendrology, their eschatology and escape Mystic trees as old as hills they nest Did they raise the earth abreast and create Hill and dale, with leaves and root's end-trail These trees beyond date and chronology Ever older, wiser growing, love, loss and dying things they who see all and knowing of all things past that chronos sings If I could hear, what would they tell? Of all history's, fair and fell? And all the tails of old recreate Dare I impel, and test, The gods with such haughty inquests Demanding a divination of truth? No, never will I know their tale And happier be, beneath the arbor vale in summers sweet or bit by winter's tooth Seek thou? No! There is no sooth. Finishing Line Press. Book FAREWELL TO THE DUST, by C. S. Leaf avalible March 2008 www.FinishingLinePress.com