WEBVTT

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"Song, the Organic Years."

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Love, if nothing
solid rises like wood

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above this scratching,
this waxen cane of a tree,

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if nothing from this trunk
unflowers after long reaching,

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if finally the leaf relaxes
its bodily processes,

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at least we had a
hand out to help it

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Also you have carried me far
on your way into the Earth.

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In the prophetic imagery of
your tunnels I was satisfied,

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and in your lovely arms
I lay weeping the truth.

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If belief doesn't make up
for the long argument of life

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still, we made up
with what was natural.

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Now from the long blind
alleys of learning,

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and in the winter of
metaphor, our arms

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reach like branches
toward the light.

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Our roots go down
to clear water.

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Our fingers so long
counted on are not dry yet.

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