Lately, our house breathes poetry. Gary has always written poems, but now he dreams them as well. He reads and writes through the night. The subtle light of a table lamp burns till morning comes.
There are poems, new ones as well as old ones, piling up everywhere: on the coffee tables, sofas, chests, on the beds and under them, on the staircases and strewn on benches in the garden. Only today I stepped on a poem, which happened to be about a tree. Here it is:
Venerable Tree
the tree of many weathers
stands black as an umbrella
arching over the beasts
of our neighborhood
it has stood there
since the earth was round
before the sky
was sliced open
to reveal
weathered stars
