old wood

this is a country

of sharp stones and small

flowers, deep snows

and dry summers.

we sing here

but we’ve learned

to sing softly, melding

our voices with birds

and the wind

with the moans of the earth

as she turns.

here lies the old wood

broken and bent

here is the teacher

who’s weathered the storm

who’s learned to stay low

and to split without dying

here is the teacher

who knows to be still

for seasons on end

awaiting the bloom

come to us father

bring us your body

now splintered and stained

bring us your dust

and your flowerless branch

come to us father

and sing us of time

so that we might sing

to our children.

© J.A. Fink, July 2013