The Breathing of Statues

The tree forgets the cold wind and the rain
spattering its roots, and the labored heaves
of storms, and the burnt copper of its leaves.
My chisel breaks against the weathered grain,

sifting patiently for a memory’s trace –
two lovers beneath the boughs, the crying
of a little girl lost in the woods, time
deepening sadness on an old man’s face.

The whisper of sawdust, like tears streaming
from a waking dream: trembling, the eyes
glaze open; quivering lips betray a sigh.
I turn, startled, at the sound of breathing.

Laughter, sorrow, promises, lies, regrets:
Silent in sleep, the tree forgets, forgets.


  1. Anonymous8:09:00 AM

    Do we see in words a metaphor for the Tao? A reflection for me of wisdoms nakedness with a smile.


  2. So many artists, so many poets I've encountered lately seem to connect somehow with the trees, as I have myself for so very long. Incredible impressions as the tree/wood takes on another form. Your writing is such a pleasure to step into.

  3. The harmony created in woods is wonderful. The scene is real.

  4. Short link -

  5. I miss the trees. . . Not much trees where we are staying . . .
    Reminds me of another poem introduced to me by my dear brother . . . a rider stops in a woods one snowy evening . . .


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