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