Against The Broken Tree

AGAINST THE BROKEN TREE


The broken tree against the sky,
bloodless-limbed, dead, or alive?
supports a bird quite ill-formed
and still as if griseous born.
The weather, dragging grizzled clouds,
clump them into hoary shrouds
that warp and swap and interchange
like smoky shells seas disarrange.
The broken bole fans splintered ends
that crack the air like river bends
and down the bark and on the sides
are traces where its peelings rise.

The broken ground beneath the tree
is walnut brown throughout the green
that runs like veins that flow with rain
when storms break o’er the higher plain.
The river catches tumbling twigs
that split the water doing jigs
like cracks in fallen porcelain
that curve in corners like a grin.
The broken pattern on the paint
that stands in shade without complaint
to groom its partner with its teeth
turns its head and rests its hip
against the broken tree--