Friday, March 20, 2015

Pruning a poem


 

 

O beautiful tree in your mantle of purple

What dead bones are you hiding

What cross-stitch  branches

What mare’s nest of twisted lanes

Like the medieval alleys of Vieux Nice?

 

Do I dare disturb your apparent sanctity,

Tear of your whorish petticoats

Like Jeremiah’s thundering Lover?

 

Will you trust that pain and nakedness

Will serve you well

That sun and air will cleanse your hidden shame?

 

O, there is beauty deep within

That calls out to be unlocked!

 

The shears flash in the March sun

As the healer pulls out tan branches long dead

Fingers rake through your brown leaves

Trapped in entwining limbs

The lopper bites green wood too

Restoring form and balance

And revealing the true you

O Acer, bleeding and still

Ready for a new day

New growth

New hope.

 

MARCH 20, 2015

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