Monday, August 15, 2011

Important Things

The obsidian eye turns,
a jay, black hood over stellar blue
creeps down the arc of a fragile branch
her weight sags closer
to reach a cluster of dead leaves
she tips and tumbles
dry fragments of leaves explode
the vacant branch nods in time
music of a tree, a bird, and a falling leaf.

Was this the irresistible urge
   to pad posterity’s nest
or the ticking of a moth
   born of a curled leaf?

There is no great drama here
no emperor crowned
no bloody battle lost or won
nothing worth noting

But this tree will never be the same again
this paper with its marks of black
   no longer a blank screen, the residue
   of (soil, water, fierce sun) wood
the remains of a tree in which once sat
   a blue creature who spied a person
   sprawled on a rock
dreaming of important things.

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