The Wishbones I found a forked twig Too small for dowsing, too tender for a slingshot, but made for making a wish The remains of a wooden turkey There are wishbones in the bare trees, every bare, naked December tree Wishbones that once cradled acorns, apples, red grapes, olives and oil Wishbones of tree marrow, bone and blood They snap with the ice and heaviness of of hard snow There are wishbones in everyone, small, large, brittle, tender bones of dreams and despair Wishbones that cradled a multitude of fruit ripened then fallen, to return to earth, the forest floor, to the water and war, bone, marrow and the blood of generations snapping away at destinies of acorns and olives of solitude Tears of leaves, builders of kingdoms, eyes containing salty remembrances and blurred visions of flowers and ornaments Animals, bears of the mountains, fish of the lakes leading to the deep Wishes and bones of cities, built, destroyed and in higher and higher levels, rebuilt upon, upon, upon ages and rungs of stone and mulch Where does the expanse of sky go when crowned and overtaken by piles of these bones? How high will these bones stack? Slowly they decompose and feed the soil and the richness of worms| The wishbones of crawlers, snakes and amphibians continue and kiss the soil, mixing sourness and honey The wishbones of bees, breaking with hives of blue and roses of yellow, poppies of blood and slumber In the chair, floor and sand of oranges deserts, the bones prosper, unstoppable In the clouds they are seen by men and camels Women touch them during delivery, during labor contractions and breaking of water and the final push The first cry and screams are the declaration of wishes Tender wishbones in the newly born human, music and dance of sorrow, hilarity and absurd silent film comedy In the lights of Broadway and mountain valleys, the taxi cab and clover of flags So it is with the pine cone and forester, the dark miner, the tired tears of the waitress, the child of hunger, the lamp of the night watcher, the sales clerk harassed, in the trembling ear of the abused and accused, in the sleep of the murdered and the despair of the death row extermination, the toilers with only bitter sand as water All reach for it and break it at last Dennis Kline (2014) from Oh My Soul
Posted on: Wed, 27 Aug 2014 15:02:11 +0000
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