Garden III - Struck Dumb
Trees are Earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
~ Rabindranath Tagore
Too soon summer strikes itself at end.
The gathering collects.
The full of fear
hesitate at the garden's gates,
unprepared to recall
the language of oaks and elms,
maples and sycamores,
walnuts and tupelos,
sweetgum and willow.
The seekers — of what
they cannot define —
scatter seed the ground welcomes,
intent to find their way.
A few step well beyond
the paths to claim,
etching their mile markers
with the names we keep before us.
Not to forget:
we do not forget.
Simply to say:
They were here. They are with us. They hear.
We all shelter in hope against loss.
Fall, nearer now, will have its way.
Color drawn first to brilliance
itself will fail, falling out of range
of keenest eyes.
And moon whose thickness
once was guide enough
will stretch the merest strip of shine.
Hardwoods shorn of green
will stand a reminder
of what we only sometimes
reach with words.
They will speak.
Heaven, shall you listen?
Copyright 2009 Maureen E. Doallas. All Rights Reserved.
Posts
1 comment:
The full of fear, the seekers, the few -- I like the triad of those coming into the garden and woods. And lines like this: "ethching their mile markers/with the names we keep before us." Nice. Very nice.
Post a Comment