The Sycamore on Balance
A symmetry of forces, yes,
but not of shape. The roots: a mess
of curves. Like slow snakes
rocks. The tree's full weight press-
ing down, the trunk arrows skyward.
For humans, centering's awkward.
You lack longevity,
can't fight gravity,
grow heavy. What wayward
cantilevering keeps you calm?
When sorrow settles, blights your limbs,
what dark contortions
fix you to the source?
Contrition. The light-aimed psalm.
Bat City Review Number 8 - 2012
Number 8 - 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Katy Didden
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission