January 30th, 2011
That for what we want we pine?
Is it for the sky
That skinny trunks rise tall,
Or to catch much sun
Leaves cluster as needles,
Bunches to sweep it from the air?
Is it to hang soft and yellow jewelry from branches
That when washed or winded
Dust cars just cleaned
And clothes hung dry,
Or to transform its subsurface holdings
To tastes more liked by tap-long toes
By the soft falling of slender fingers?
The heart knows not what it wants
It just wants
And can be directed
Through ardent work,
Painful in the straightening,
To better things that take fulfilling light
Rather than others that would have it wanting
Aimless and desperate
Devoid of home
Lead senseless and voracious to an emptiness
Not seen on earth
Save in the lifeless eyes
Of the crooked lives and their darkest forms
Worse than those of the dead,
Lacking the certainty found in the end
Still maintaining dread.
We pine because we aspire
To vague inklings of what we might be,
To ourselves without limit,
Whereby some limit all others
To their own image
To take and abuse
In a fashion to present me as them.
The light that’s caught is first thinned,
Bunches that bind are broken apart.
In racing toward heights unknown
All roots are abandoned
Emaciating the model.
What’s left is mutilated,
Now marred and unfamiliar,
Lost is he who left
In devastation of his hands against his body
Used against others’ faces,
Their apparent truth obscured.
In his blind pain
He felled the pines,
The scene no different than the soil
Strength absconded in the falling.
It is not enough that rays abound
As light goes unseen
To the tired remains
Still staring up
Sitting under the last tree
Granting last light
In thickening shade.