thejosephfactor

Little, hiding, flaking twigs

that spring quickly by waters.

These busy trees do not rise proudly

or bend with prominence

But gather together on edges.

Singing, making a chorus of music

with constant wind.

Their little treasures rise quickly and fall.

Maybe never seen, never climbed to such height,

Perhaps the curse of fisher’s lines

or refuge for downy flakes nest.

Unsung, Unembelished,

Unaided and nestled on hidden shores.

Seen only by hours of river waving by,

to whom they lift a happy

voice of praise.

Reenchanted

A book of walking
Morning darkness warms to pink
And waking I only think
Of trails already tried.

A gentle ruffle across the water
Stirs memories of laughter,
Of boastful, happy pride
When a gang of men grew strong.

But not long past I long
For sunny, playful yellow lawns
When youngsters run and hid
Only happy someone will seek.

This game of rise and fall,
These seasons of rest and trial,
Ring around me like sap and bark
And the dark, wet rings still seep.

Ooze sweet life and bitter night,
Fade vibrant green to Autumn sages,
Point up way to a higher sun.
And branch withered arms toward heaven.