IT’S ALWAYS NICE TO PUT A FACE ON GRIEF

Who believes in trees?
A racing from ravines on fire?
The safety of sand at the entrance of water?
Soon everything is black faced and charcoal.
A house opens its lid
And lets in the stain of its own destruction.
Elsewhere silence so immense,
Light and texture shape the wind.
Who worships trees?
A race from one space to another?
Two feet of water in the middle of everything?

Michael Brownstein