here is where God planted his mightiest seedlings--
clinging with their knotted, unkept muscles to the
anxiously red dirt, rock-encountered and never watered since
that Great Flood which brought them here (not quite
two of every kind, but floatingly scattered, sewn like a
needle over the broken earth,
feeding on her own enraged contours, convictions,
for there is nothing else).
fumbling aggressively towards oppenness,
vegetation in question
has never the ease of horizontal progress,
the pleasures of shade; its
bark bears the sunbaked atrocities of generational pain,
an untold history which would incriminate if he only knew his own
the forest breathes with a heaving mammal's heaviness;
this tree, standing as a lone and thirsty cemetary
wrings the dirt with its struggling claws, his
dried tongue flailing like a broomstick to the
cobwebbed corners of vision.
there is admirable--even envious--strength in this doomed struggle;
not hopefulness, but unaware, opaque endurance, one which
brittles and embitters and
leaves in its wake a monument to the boxing martyr.
the visitors would not have this Babylonian sight
any other way, with its
geometric testaments of cataclysm,
the rust-tarnished scar of an
only superficial healing.
dead things may be admired safely,
if, perhaps, with more effort--
but ease is easily offered when its
offspring is ensured.
the artist with his failing pen is
quick to sketch
branches gnarled and twisted in death.
only the virtuoso and
dare face themselves with the
the overwhelming odds
and the sobbings
of forfeited strife.