…………………..
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
in a white sky it
banks up and right
following the dark underside
shadow of a limb, it
branches again and again
telling a tale of deciduous DNA
in a matrix of lines
furiously scratched,
motionless,
no sound no scent—
a treeless tree that can’t be touched,
eerie as the mute ghost of a leaf
unmoved by wind,
untroubled by cold or heat,
a tree that’ll never be climbed
by Frost’s birch-swinger’s feet
a tree abstract as any art,
a dependent clause in the tale of genes
it moves river-like by line and limb
it sings dances leaps
until its delta: then
like its maker, reposes
not spent it seeps to the sea
whispering the remains of its tale
leaving it to the furies
of what storm, what gale—
or what tranquility?
.
by Jim Culleny
© Oct. 29, 2010
Blink 