In the wind
you know when branches have fallen. Each branch downed
has a trace of the wind of descent vibrating through it.
In the time between coming and going,
in the rain of branches from the understory,
you can read the night, the wind, the lack of it,
what has happened back to happening.
The forest is sloughing dead to make room for the sun.
And you, bent there to gather branches,
have always been walking
the dark woods children hurry through
Calendars of Fire
Copyright © 2013 by Lee Sharkey
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission