Maybe The Trees
Maybe the trees have lost their eyes
And the wind its wicked wisdom
The sand sifts through the glass
Unnoticed
The rivers cry in the dark phase
Of an old moon
Hear me, O Sun
Give life to the branch
Soil to the root
Fast water, graceful rain
A rising tide to wash away
Sorrow
We must emerge
Together
The upheaval of a great mountain
Through stratified rock
A peak of glistening snow
To claim the heavens as our
Own.
(Previously published in Autumn Leaves, July 2003; World Poet's Society, July 2006)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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