My little wren friend, alight on the detritus Collected here for compost or, later, when dry, Burning. That branch where you perch seems As good as any, really, to listen, or at least To hear. You choose... you can choose, later, When dry, what to burn, what to compost. But first, before listening, before the telling, Before burning, look with me through The opening I have created, a view where I can... Where we can see hills roll and sheep graze Where we can hear the ass bray and cows low Where the pack of coyotes can be kept at bay. Maybe we can pause long enough to find In the shapes of barren branches, veins through which We can climb, like children... like father and son, Until at last, letting fall the seeds, spinning down, We can watch a tiny sprout pushing up through The ashes the compost the what-remains, Gasp the air, like a child who needed his dad Who was never there gasps when finally he sees His dad as something less than the sun, but just As necessary a myth in the climbing of trees. You speak not, my little wren friend, But your silence watches me, Like a ghost that lives, in a way. Have I removed your home, or did I Make a home more beautiful Through removal of brush and weeds, The view changed I had cluttered with myths? Either way, here is a tree, a black walnut tree That needs recovering, beautiful and tall. Watching me, little wren friend, hear what you will, Do you see the hardness in a man at work? We will have to dig in to discover what will grow, The soil toxic from juglone that seeps from its roots. I know garlic will, and garlic has its uses, My little wren friend, at night when at last Blood drifts through the veins climbed like a father Looking for his son, keeping at bay vampires That lurk in wait for me to soften, to stop.
This marks a substantial revision to the original poem posted last year on November 24th. The original had a story that only the poet knew in the background of the words that were not enough to tell it. This tells a story, with I believe enough words. Your constructive thoughts are always appreciated.
(C) 2020 Stephen Fuller