The wood creaks steadily,
rhythmically.
Leave the old,
hold fast to the new,
bone of bone and flesh of flesh.
So the Scriptures read.
The boy breathes softly,
slowly.
But when the old isn't left
can the new be held fast,
will the grafting take?
The babe kicks heartily,
lively.
When roots
never leave their soil?
The mind turns restlessly,
wearily.
When feet still fall in the prints
made thirty years before?
When a body is surrounded
by the same hills,
the same night sounds,
the same view of the light
playing on the trees in the distance,
the same current --
When the same swirls and eddies
that shaped
then
still do all the shaping
now?
Ah, I read this right after I posted a poem on my blog. We posted them within an hour of each other, I think. Twins.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing your poems-- the ordering of struggle and questions into patterns and lines. Even when the questions are hard with no easy answers, I am glad to read them.
xo.