Tree
They are
Always there,
Those unyielding
Flags of the Earth,
Living out all
the horror of the seasons
while the faces grow red
in Vermeer blotches,
while Fear, the painter,
as old as breath and stone,
is well alive, among the rotting
out of tooth and gum.
It’s hard to think about;
the ancient sadness.
We are, in the end,
an extension of the tree
and together we must suffer
the distance of the Sun.
But they know better
than to leave themselves
bare all the year round
lest their bark
be scorched and scarred
by the infinite rays
of foolishness.
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