A Kingdom of Leaves

A silver maple guiltless,
silhouette against industrial sky.
Still but neighbor to the pillar,
Manufactured cloud, directing life.
High, unholy hands, a twisted community,
limbs in bending wind that
imparts the river upon the roots.
Roots that grasp, intricate beneath the grass,
sewn and interlaced, like prayer tassels
in holy knots, fastened in holy soil,
and though we did not know
the ground here is never ungracious,
never dry.
This body of unhallowed parts, set away
and set apart, intentionally separate from the
sated hollow, vacated, for gods of these woods
believe not in the life of the water.
Oh… the city dies as well,
painting gray the green in monotony of gain.
With production, the instruction becomes to straighten,
to contain beauty to rows
that do not wind or weave or contemplate or believe
a tale of overwhelming canopy.
Cities and trees, they do not leave
surroundings of self, saturated with ease.
Along these paths, both shallow and ragged,
success springs quickly and is scorched.
The freshness of water, life to all seeds,
instead suffer along parched pavement,
roll into the weeds, and there, in agony,
they forget to breathe.
Shall we call you with creation, with color,
with blessing bloomed from these crooked stems,
promising bright and light, but pale against gloom.
Ah single leaf, alight for relief,
call others to beautifully line the streets.
All pile together, decompose to compose
a cover in hot weather, a love proposed
in refreshing new soil, a deepening of prose of
the words which ground us, the water that flows,
now over the dam, now up forest hills,
now flooding with life all it seeps in and fills…

On Giving Up

Aware of altars, there is much I would compel
into the binding. Into ropes,
into knots, entanglements of selfish scopes
revelling in lusts; may they dispel.
Weak, I admit, sin does not submit well.
Oh my zealous knife, invitation slopes
away from coercion, banishing hopes
of forcing pain to meakly wave farewell.

In splinters, in spite of the face of the word,
In sacrifice, dryest breath misheard.

Cords lie untied, imperfection finds
itself paved into souls on the way;
enlivened by paradox that binds
both Spirit and life to redeem the enslaved.

Returning from the Church

An artless brown fence sits against the bland
Indiana spring, half and half, green and tan.
The black lab sprung up proud and ran
in stark, brash contrast to the gentle land.

In the breaking, this blessing, the morning sun began
to enkindle meditation and a mild appreciation
for a blessing yet to come and a strong anticipation
of a love sprung up and running throughout our age's span.

Broken but distinct, the tail light's illumination,
flushing imagination with the red of reflecting,
the dog, the brakes, a collision without detecting.
Tragic and torn; reality mocks manipulation.

Tossed against the fence, and down in imperfection,
head meekly lain on the tamest grass, hollow as sorrow.
I slowed my dreams as I passed, a pause in my tomorrow,
but swallowed hard, for upon paws, a swift resurrection,

darting back across its death, with eyes of fear now knowing;
the colliding of our lives with life, uncontrolled but never slowing.