The nice thing about tree rings

is tomorrow they’ll curve

out of themselves, stay beneath

blossom or shoot off

into each other; they’ll grow

then gray into each other—

to delineate one from another

is like pulling at centipede grass:

you’ll pull up the entire lawn

or forest, leaving only skinfolds

of earthen mounds, carved-out

wrist story of Monster Slayer:

in a virgin creek, leg & thigh

of his mother soak

up the Sun. Immaculate

pulse of radiance & ripple

in her soon rounded

middle, jut out for (f)all—

longer than any concentric

season, dark and dry

circles reveal a tree split

open, what is found between

arm bones—a kind of sheet

music with all whole notes;

this is how rings sing

View Comments

in the early morn, a choral

of cicadas sound come, come

as though they had wrists

to shake gourds at His coming.

Join the Conversation
Looking for comments?
Find comments in their new home! Click the buttons at the top or within the article to view them — or use the button below for quick access.