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.
2 responses to “Dogwoods”
I always think, when I read your works that I should have something constructive to say but you have covered everything. Your poems are so well done I can only hope that I may be as skilled as you are .Loading…