Winter Trees

Dissected trees, nerves and veins
Laid bare against the antiseptic blue —
What are they but the green brain
Of summer, open to my view?

An opening for ubi sunt!
The poet reflecting on a warmer past,
The childhood with its scummy pond,
The dirty book that couldn't last.

Where is the prickly weight of green,
Its hoots and croakings that filled up the night,
June bugs pinging against the screen,
My rage at tiny things that bite?

What clotted leaves! What oaks and maples!
What looping vines where Tarzan might have swung!
What fierce buzzing in this brain
All summer long! What thoughts that stung!

Where is the solid stuff I wanted?
Where is the tissue that's been scraped away?
Where is the hustle of the ant,
The grasshopper drunk in the hay?

The Mind of God! Now, while it sleeps,
Is the time to look into its mysteries.
See how stark it is, yet deep.
How empty. Save for winter trees.


Published in Writers Forum, Autumn 1993