Guzlowski-Stepek: The Never-ending Poem

For the love of trees for the love of God chopped down life then no life leaves scattered, blood on the soil For the love of one another for the love of God children cut down no growth roots scarcely stretched and yet those old folk remembering past wars survivors thrivers those old oaks at Chatelherault wise? Maybe just indifferent breathing in and out, Zen priests indifferent yes different from us blind to longing blind to belonging they who see so clearly have no need of hope

The Lives of Trees It's easy for trees Leaves  and then no leaves  year after year Us? The slow growth of our children? Their early deaths?  Our early deaths? Our fears and dreams? Trees have it easy.  They are like god -- Indifferent  Breathing in & out Blind to longing and love and loss Blind to those living Only with hope

I go to the ancient chestnut tree and feel its clumsy bark in my soft, gentle hands No birds sing yet my ears are open to the potential of their charm, crows look glum in their silent huddle In this dark December morning I watch the leaves turn to muddy mulch in a wind-strewn field I take my hands off the tree The fingers gone! The palms rotting towards the wrist I ask my hands what I have done to deserve this I ask my God what I have done to deserve this. The chestnut tree looks down on me with pity and sad acceptance What were once my hands lie on my wet boots as dust just visible in the beginning of dawn and I hope, I think I see the green shoots of new hands emerging from my wrists and the tree opens its heart to my fate.

 I open my hands And see only my hands The lines in my palms That some say speak of fate  And love and misery  And the wonder to come Some quiet morning in December When the cold will silence the birds And the asking in my palms. And I close my hands And see only my hands The palms lost in them The fate and love and wonder Lost in this quiet December morning As I turn to watch the leaves  Moving slowly in the wind The birds are silent The crows here last week are gone  Gone to the Carolinas Where they hope to find some sun I sit and watch the trees As if they were my open hands.