tremor in the walnut grove,
stand of near emptiness where I once stood,
unto a sorrow as the moths
belong now to these branches, the smoke
and burn of twilight,
the dreamers aroused,
unbound from their nest, wings unfurling walnut
tree-patterns, adult colors—
bronze and gray of decay, although
they are newly born.
This is the why and the way
of how I love them: savoring the end-
of-summer’s diminishing hours, unafraid
of the coming dark, enthralled by the applause
of bodies caught like hatchets
in the bark.
-- Paul Bohince
wow. bravo. -- thanks for selecting and sharing (and knowing about) such great stuff!
Isn't it lovely? I just come across poems, being a poet / memoirist, but most don't stand out--this one did! Made me FEEL the natural world.
Post a Comment