274 and 275

That air is like the shattering of glass,

your bare feet on the edges of the grass,

the kiss of snow upon an empty plain,

the breath that leaves when in an icy rain,

like light from a TV screen in the dark,

especially when bright, and clear, and stark,

or when fluorescents crash in a classroom,

the movie over, lecture to resume.

Like when you touched a cold telephone pole

and thence, all of your hard-fought warmth it stole,

or when you’re woken up much earlier

than you would ever normally prefer.

But there’s something enchanting about it--

some sudden shocks are magic, I admit.

~~~

Upon these dead, repurposed trees, I write

(a death-fueled frame of will that thinks he’s good),

and make a record of what I hold right

and claim to know much, much more than I should.

The dead trees do more than my writing will.

I graffiti their graves and think it wise.

But trees have taught while standing very still

what all my frantic words cannot reprise.

You need not know a tongue to learn from them

whose silence lectures better than a book.

We more than often, with our words, condemn

the truths we think we know, and have mistook.

But I forget—the trees, too, dine on death,

and exhale, feasting still, our very breath.