As close as a lover's face –
how many storms have shaken it
how many rivers traced its creases
beetles' feet confided in its cracks and crevices
lives flashed beneath it
hands reached to touch, caress, its wizened bark
as I do, now, in my own brief passing?
The lichen
ReplyDeleteKinda liken
The cracks
That licken
The bark
That's helpful, Michael, thank you. I can see I'll have to move over in the poetry field. Now perhaps you'll consider the idea of moulding clay burrs to oaks??? x
ReplyDeleteOh the clay birds! No no".....yes clay burrs would be lovely...a poet I could never be just a word jester..x
ReplyDelete