Who knows?
I lie down on my side
As though it’s a necessary game,
Hearing the war drums,
Checking the corollary birds
That betray the movements
Of spies…
I’m hidden
By the toothed, simple leaves
Of the English holly—an evergreen,
It conceals us
From public tragedies,
Has concealed us.
Over the brim of trouble
Poetry continues,
The yellow poplar
Does its damndest
To hold me.
The alder
Drops red-to-purple
And consecrated strings
At the cemetery’s edge.
Who believes
In the sublime infancies
And virgin apprehensions
Of children
Among the sweet birches?
I remain motionless
Like Thomas Traherne
And listen for the bees
From the estate of innocence.
In the thick shade
The maple seeds
Rise like sparks
Just out of reach.
I speak for the boy
Who, before all others
Played our game.
He played it while collecting twigs.
He lay stock-still on the earth
And listened to the orient wind.
The trees are foreign soldiers
Talking low in a different tongue.
From: Only Bread, Only Light
Copyright 2000 by Copper Canyon Press