The Long Sorrow of Trees
We call it winter but for them it needs no calling
chatter of birds and chipmunks, of rats
they don’t ignore these exactly nor discount them
they allow what otherwise would not be
the weight of logic is this non-obstruction
we call being; after the fact only
since the fact is only a nano-present
behind naming, behind desire
we have yet to do anything with
a mystery novel we read once a year
drawn by what we missed or have forgotten
there are no more surprises only repetitions
of yearnings for what we might have wanted.
The winter light was dear
beyond all belief and dis-belief
I’ve waited in the wings, in the parking lot
in waiting rooms for extras and overflow
in an alcove it sometimes passed
on the way to a performance
real loss has no dimensions as do ‘gains’
there is no accounting
cedar, fir and pine have the greens year-round
unlike the blues they swallow whole continents
of grief, of longing, with no change of color
no deepening, darkening, and they don’t whine about it.
Meanwhile the light
has been waiting for me to return
holding my coat and hat
waiting on the docks, in the garden
in the closet and on the roof
an extra chair at the kitchen table
a blank page in my appointment calendar.
2 Responses to “The Long Sorrow of Trees”
Mr. Stevens stands up and smiles. The children of his children have heard the call and not taken their gift or calling lightly. “The winter light was dear beyond all belief…I’ve waited in the wings, in the parking lot in waiting rooms for extras and overflow” is achingly beautiful.
Thanks, bro! This one does seem well-rooted and satisfying, like an old tree.