Reprieve

Spring, 2015            
           
The falling Sandal-Tree sheds fragrance round,          
Perfumes the axe that fells it to the ground;          
           
It isn't like they aren't trying to reproduce, give birth          
to relieve so much drying and pain. Fertility is a gift          
of the gods beyond the stratosphere of tangibility.            
           
They're drifting in all the right places, against one          
another hushedly, away searchingly, dissipating            
into thin veils of a bridal gown waiting at the altar.          
           
Hoping the barometric pressure slams cold against            
the heat, they stretch into larger shapes. Below, Life            
observes their movements from the solidity of form,            
           
Waiting for dawn to manifest the waking against            
the moist skin of fog. It longs from grounded home          
to feel the vibration of a distant masculine rumble.            
           
It yearns to hear the crash of the wine glass, feel            
a downpour of chilled white onto its swollen tongue,  
shallow-rooted and cracked as a riverbed drought.            
           
It begins to see its life passing in the shape-shifting          
of the waltz. A seed riding a sudden gust; clinging          
to a fraction of earth; slow absorption; timed gestation.            
           
A crack; stretch; parting of warm dirt; curled birth.            
It senses death too; aging; wilting; dry surrender;            
shriveled and barren of sons and daughters.            
           
Sunset brings respite from the music. A crescent            
balance of growth squared with pulsing Venus captivates            
long enough to erase the muscle pain of diluted loss.            
           
Clouds skulk over dried plains looking askance. Yet Nature,          
in indelible death of rising flood, early frost, hiker's boot,         
and woodsman's axe - as a child unabashedly forgives.            
           
~