When we’re together
the cliché is we are one—
competing till death.
The light strokes the needle, enticing its chemical reaction, as the wind
caresses the branch in and out of shadow, until it is dark all the time, and in a
drastic measure dries, and finally resigns to the ground.
When we’re together
not every one’s in the sun—
the violence of trees.
There are no clacking typewriters anymore, their keys cool and dust covered;
the iceman has melted away; the red light in the darkroom is extinguished;
the door-to-door sales man has left his suitcase at the end of the street;
the phone operator has hung up.
When we’re together
silence of deadfall descents—
among Douglas firs.
Poem of Photosynthesis I
More to Explore
