Angels
in the Arboretum
It
would be easy for the lighter among us
to
bypass earth─
where
matter is foreign, where only the senses
can
speak.
We
stay with trees, because these sentinels
of
breath and time
reach
upward for spirit at the start of sky─
to
hold the heavens
from
slipping away. Those branches are firm,
wood
lifted
from
dark soil with clods of clay that flake off
to
feed eternity.
Many
think it the other way around─
eternity
scaling away
in
curves to wrap itself around a twig, finding its way
back
to the dust.
Why
do the branches twist in the air as they grow,
making
a sweet bramble?
Should
we of the other world pretend to be trapped
by
the sight
of
a leafy crown against the twilight?
Why
do saplings
split
and fork as they push aside the grasp of earth
if
not to form a refuge
for
those of us you call unreal?
Leaves
quench themselves
at
nature's spring
Below
the reach of sight,
but
how can they give shade
or
place of hiding to those of us
who
care nothing for warmth of sun
or
for being recognized by names of language?
It
is with no regret
we
watch them fall. Bent from passage,
their
veins last to go,
they
repeat in miniature the limbs of tree
that
hold the sky together.
─We have to marvel
that
you can be mortal
exactly
at this moment ─
Why
is it that you eat the fruit from trees
and
throw the seeds away?
You've
got it backwards.
Seeds
provide a space
between
the soil and sky
for
realms to mix─
so
that a turning earth is not alone.
In
unexpected branches
is
a whisper of home,
and
so we float in your folds of bark,
one
ear to the pulse of life,
one
eye on the open skies ─
and
freedom.
─
