Drawing

…………………..
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
motionless
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

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