In this drawing a line runs
along the edge of a white birch
toward the top left limit of a page,
an inky contrail, something
seen in white sky
banks up and right
along the dark underside
shadow of a limb
branches again and again
telling a tale of deciduous DNA
a matrix of lines
furiously scratched
no sound no scent,
a treeless tree that can’t be touched
eerie as a mute ghost of a leaf
unmoved by wind
untroubled by cold or heat
a tree that’ll never be climbed,
untouched by Frost’s birch-swinger’s feet

—abstract as any art,
a dependent clause in the tale of genes,
it moves river-like
by line, lip and limb

it sings    dances    leaps
until its delta: then
like its maker, reposes

not spent it seeps to the sea
sowing the remains of its tale
leaving it to the furies
of what storm what gale?

by Jim Culleny
© Oct. 29, 2010

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s