The Brooklyn Rail

Not a wind it hasn’t heard,

a rain that hasn’t turned it

into a sleeping child, a fog

that hasn’t left it with some

piece of itself, the tree—curator

of snow and icicle—dispenses

wisdom in the place it broke

ground, telling time stilling

light, drawing the horizon near

as it does this morning

hovering over a gathering

of mourners huddled in the cold

sun, an infinite blue sky offering

what it can, a pine casket

mounted and in position,

two shovels half buried in a pile

of earth, the naked arms

of the old oak a shiver of promise

and regret, the sharp air

sharpening the unspoken, silence

drawing deeper into itself,

the examined the unexamined

at peace at war, the deceased

free of all those branches, not

a failure exhumed for seasonal

renewal, not a betrayal not a loss

budding in the dark, death

no longer a seed planted

by the years, we stand we listen

holding on to words logging

the narrative of a life, a life, a life,

a leaf whose last self knew

from the color green, a singular

passage a perfect hymn.

 

First appeared in: The Manhattan Review, Fall 2024