Today's poem is by David Swerdlow
The Last Hill and the Wild Trees
It is easy to forget
the pine trees, and not unforgivable.
Forsythia opens its hand
to the sun, obscure
under the drooped needles
of the pines' catacomb
where shafts of light pass
over a crow
impervious to beauty.
Still the light trembling limbs,
the light trembling limbs.
with honeysuckle, it is impossible
to be alone or still as the dusk quiets
the treetops and random voices,
called home. Syllables
ring and relax and fall where
with the present air almost
pauses on your arm but whirls
without desire everywhere.
Across the street
in the trees
on the wire
mourning doves sing the evening's clean
linen on the line,
the sad hum of us all
in a perfectly blue sky.
What danger is there in drifting
on Rockhold Creek,
boats strung out in the harbor lights like clouds
covering a hundred moons?
We love the water
expanding into its calm,
beautifully after its own torment.
The last hill and the wild trees
to the backlit water before evening settles
and every time we come over this hill
to the water I apologize
for the small self I have been.
Copyright © 2003 David Swerdlow All rights reserved
from Small Holes in the Universe
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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