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
Copyright © Craig Leaf | Year Posted 2007
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