Alone, standing, oaken life take root
the wood gnarls as branches stretch,
the colored leaves fall down, down
and the moss hangs down, down
bent, twisted, craven mass of limbs.
I stand, wondering how this, alone, might stir and how the
—limbs, reaching, have no other limbs to twine,
I touch, and I consider wood-borne genocide, this rough
—bark grating on my fingers,
but the bough yields and the leaves descend,
and I, standing here alone, am left to ponder
how colorless the world can be
with one life, one love, and none to share it,
and I think it is no wonder this solitary thing
sets to wilting in the chill.
* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another. Enjoy!