As Graves Grow
Each tree the headstone of a seed,
every wood a wood of tombs.
Visit a plot young, visit one in middle-age
and notice the lichen near the eyes,
the limp-lined hair, petrified.
Now their existence digs
into the memory of the living
alone. One single shadow stretches itself,
slender rib of tilted body,
until it reaches a reddish bark
and in the collision is forced,
still a simple infant,
to make its right angle starward.
Distance becomes objective;
wisdom no longer refuses
proof. Is thought to be cold
only, or is it that knowledge vast
can be an unexpected ambassador
of warmth when paired with ambered emotion?
To span antiquity
one must mold their tissue wings,
prepare for the polish of epochs.
This is no koan - as one approaches,
thoughts become reality. They heighten
until they loom and loom
until they consume at last.
The entirety of one’s vision
must radiate past resin —
translucent casket, public burial —
mere frame for the bigger birth.