Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Old Moss Woman

Who is to say what a tree remembers?
Twisted and bent, dying limbs
trailing skeins of lichen;
caught woefully
in a mockery
of protracted death throes.
A perch, a home, a hollow
for generations of matching
scolding squirrels to stash their loot,
for songbirds
to stealthily tuck their transient
opalescent young.
Who is to say?


Rachel Westfall
June 19, 2013

8 comments:

Anthony Duce said...

Enjoyed.

Rachel Westfall said...

Thanks Anthony!

christopher said...

How To Write A Poem

In the darkest frame
of a quiet night, after
checking two, three times
the oak, squirrel's home,
uproots a moment
and does a spin, maybe two,
and settles back down
with a secret smirk
and a new poem nestled
like a tired new bird.

Jun 20, 2013 4:04 PM

Rachel Westfall said...

I love it, Christopher!

Rob-bear said...

A tree is,
indeed,
a source of
so many
stories.

Including the one
you just
created.

Blessings and Bear hugs!
Bears Noting
Life in the Urban Forest (poetry)

Miko G said...

“At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain.”
― Pablo Neruda, Regalo De Un Poeta/ Gift Of A Poet

Miko G said...

“At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain.”
― Pablo Neruda, Regalo De Un Poeta/ Gift Of A Poet

Moanerplicity said...

This beautiful on several levels, Rachel. You are still very much a Divine Narrator of Moments.

I often wonder about trees, things in nature... even houses & ponder whether they somehow retain within their essence some thing close to memories long after we earthlings have stopped breathing air.


*ponders some more*


One.