Saturday, September 22, 2012

Tree Dance






Tree Dance



For eleven months I wrote to you
every day. Finally I learned to read
invisible ink, empty envelopes;
still I write. Words chase the pen
but never catch it quite, traveling

where we will know love
when pigs fly, when trees dance.
The pen scratches, the words glow
the page fills and runs
with a leaping color, pushing

some obstruction
fouled hard against the wellspring
loose, sprung
to make its way 
down the dark drain alone.

Out by the puncture-vine that mends the fence
as I mouth to the air the word forgive
I see two trees kiss,
their greentip lips grown close enough
at last to meet.

A litter of pines prudent parted at planting
having gathered seven summers, turn
weave and mesh, waltzing their small wildness
handfast, while in the sky
there seems

to be 
         a pig.

~August~September 2012




 Posted for   Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub
 Karin Gustafson hosts tonight, and asks us to write a poem of the unexpected






Photos © joyannjones
 

18 comments:

  1. Wow - so much wonder here - and so many vagaries of time, space, longing - the writing without answer so poignant, the humor of the pigs and the bitterness too of the wellspring and drain (I love that stanza!) and the trees kissing so suddenly sweet and winsome again, wishful maybe a better word, and then that rather brusque come-uppance = a strike against magical thinking. Or maybe not! Magical nonetheless. k.

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  2. yep...magical nonetheless...the greentip lips grown close enough
    at last to meet..and the pig that flies finally...the growing together...magical...

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  3. i love how you sew the first to second and then again the second to third stanzas in a seamless mending way. Still, my favorite is.."Out by the puncture vine..." I so enjoy happy endings. there is fair distance between unlikely and impossible. sudden forgiveness is certainly one of the greater human gifts.

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  4. I so love "waltzing their small wildness handfast".......so beautiful.

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  5. Why, you old romantic. The type of evergreen you have pictured with this has such soft needles, like brushes, making them perfect for your arboreal kiss.

    As for porcine astronauts, I don't think I believe in them. Perhaps if one does happen to buzz me while I am out walking, that will make it all the more unexpected.

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  6. Loved~out by the puncture-vine that mends the fence
    It seemed strange to read beautiful line after beautiful line only to slam into a blunt finish
    But it worked
    And i'm guessing, that was the point
    Rick

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  7. For eleven months I wrote to you
    every day. Finally I learned to read
    invisible ink, empty envelopes;
    still I write. Words chase the pen
    but never catch it quite,

    Oh, if only he responds! It breaks the little heart when blanks are received.Beautifully written Joy!

    Hank

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  8. haha i love it when pigs finally fly...smiles...love the trees embracing as well...there is a bit of magic in that...and hope as well for those that write...and wait learning to read invisible ink...smiles....aww...i am a sucker for this stuff...smiles

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  9. "the page fills and runs
    with a leaping color"

    "sprung
    to make its way
    down the dark drain alone."
    "as I mouth to the air the word forgive"
    " weave and mesh, waltzing their small wildness
    handfast"

    What a change after "forgive"
    Surprise? You bet. Life!!!

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  10. the opening is so beautiful, and sad...loved it.

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  11. i enjoyed this one and the ending!

    have a lovely Sunday, Joy!

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  12. So sad and yet beautiful... I loved it...trees growing oh so close and yet so far...and then a touch years later...there's always a bit of hope for us all.

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  13. So did the guy every write to you?

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  14. Unrequited love explored through apt metaphors. Hope springs external even if the pig doesn't!

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  15. We see what we need to see...trees dancing, pigs flying...all help when what we see without our magic is to painful to envision. Beautiful write, Hedge!

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  16. oh, what a wonderful, magical tapestry.... just like love.

    i've seen a few pigs fly by in my time... ;-)

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg