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The Soul’s Correspondence
Freely, the black locusts bend and wave
from limbs and fingers, waterfall
spray across their stone slab of sky.
The older the tree, and taller,
the greater the grace. The young
birch and plum imitate with curtsies
in their small way, new to the wind.
The spruce’s scraggles heave and flutter.
Bamboo hisses; leafless poplar echoes.
They write poems with ease,
roots deepening below them in the earth.
Not buried exactly. But weighted,
spindling toward magnetic center.
Listen birds, stop squawking at me.
I want to hear the Soul’s correspondence
through the spirits of trees, while I rest
hands in my lap. No writing. No work.
Up from the essence of survival. No,
listen. It is far more than that.
March 2012
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13 comments:
it is absolutely as real as a table (knock knock) this essence offered up to us, proof of the more.
i love your characterization of the trees. i laugh to recognize them as though we are friends.
xo
erin
Lovely.
Beautifully written, Ruth. The trees' sound-spirits can be heard.
Nature's voice, nature's ways, woven into us and through us, and in those roots we tap the soul and spiriti of ourselves and...'so much more.' Very fine and atmospheric poem, Ruth--your experimental one yesterday threw me a bit out of whack, so sorry for no comment there--I am not very good with filling in the blanks, though I think that form was extremely intriguing in leaving a subject open-ended, and also in the delicate nudge the poet can give the reader under its wraps.
Exactly! Trust in the tree ...
Lovely poem...such a dance of life. Wonderful title, as well.
Stirring thoughts, Ruth - that we can stop and simply listen to the trees. Poetry at its best. Thank you.
I hope the birds listen to you and find the joy and piece of stillness
I long for such serenity... just to listen. But it seems spring brings along activities, bustling and scurrying. And the thing with blogging, you feel so obligated, so pressing sometimes. I love this poem, conveying stillness and peace. Thanks for the thought.
Very mysterious -- like death throes into birth pangs...
No one I think would wish the difficulties of their own soul road -- we each, I think, carry a cross down it -- and yet the surrender yields such unexpected depths and resonance, like resting one's own hands to listen. That's the difference, I understand, between prayer and meditation; the latter is talking to God, the former listening to the Voice. "No, listen. It is far more than" "the essence of survival." Thriving because it passes. Fine work again, Ruth. - Brendan
Thank you, friends.
When I take my walks around our citadel city, Ruth, I love the trees especially now without their clothes. I like the added thought of their soul's correspondence!
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