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.