Tree of Many Feathers:

01/28/2016

At night the writer creeps into empty rooms
To see the sky from every angle, to
Stare balefully at the full moon,
The river, the leafless trees, the
Sloping valley

Somewhere below is a history that has been told
And told and told
What use comes of telling it again?

Even if the words will press the insides of the heart
The lungs, expanding and contracting unwearied
The eyes will always grow indolent
Accustomed to the empty and dark.
Perhaps
Someone in one of these rooms
Will say something of importance

At dark, the hushed world hunkers into
Its still night coat, the stars thicken
Gather and crackle
There is empty between them
The house is full of books, stoved
Cover to cover on overfull shelves
The house feels its old skeleton,
Beneath heart pine and lathe, the
Weight of carpets and paintings and vases and pillows
The weightlessness of the word

At first light, the crows will throw their calls
Like spears in the watery air. For now they
Are roosting in bent sycamores at the river’s edge. The
River seeps southward. Noiseless and certain

The writer emerges from her room
To breathe melting snow among the trees of the yard
Rain barrels, an old barn and a forgotten chicken coop, a
Rusting rake and half-filled pots, red earth

The words are out there
In there
Maybe

All poems (c) copyright 2016 Tree of Many Feathers

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