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.