Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Cold Tree

A mine disaster,
a naked tree,
the stark surreal jag, covered
with moss and saprophytes
recycling...

It crawls through me
as sundown's ice dances over
the locked limbs of these
restless dreaming trees,
and either sings,
or dies.

The simurgh's egg cracks,
the scary black one this time,
menacing empty.

Through the shell
the mountain opens--
a black narcissus
bigger than the sky.

2 comments:

katy said...

dear drook,

i am reading your poems in anti-semi chronology. antisemi. sounds like the sort of name they'd give a rash-soothing cream.

i like the third part, the simurgh's egg part, empty.

Drook said...

it's the realization of dying that makes us all the same...beware the rash.

it's an effort to bring people further into the moment... but i'm more interested to hear if it works.