Dogwoods

The rusted  tips of the dogwood petals, fall 
after fall, indented to the shape of crosses, 
leaving bloody crucifixes after bloody crucifixes.

The collected  light, felt wounded,
drenched  in a suffering beauty, the kind 
the soul draws  as perfectly straight.

The red  berries, past ripe are now wine. 
They stand naked in the air in lovely shame,
past innuendo, beyond October rumor. 

Their taproots sluice the darkness.
Two trees take root, cleaving the soil,
searching for  sweet runnels—

each drop finding a leaf praying 
for the sky, each uncurling  a 
newborn’s fist, fingering blossoms 

greenish white, deep rooted,
drawing light from shadows, 
breaking in on earth’s sleep.