(But in this case there was
in itself to shew even whether the
flower were shutting or opening.
Hopkins, Journal, 1871)
Stopped by design at the end of my lot,
I hear the rhythm of dying reeds,
The dry conclusive notes of hot
August winds that breathe into weeds
A chaos. Shapes quiver into hurt
Limbs that rise and fall against the heat.
Quick oak branches strive--to fall inert
Against the dead. Colors, fading, repeat
The silence of things unformed. I see
An energy scattered on the ground,
The dry leaves of a once flourishing tree,
Feel the spent cadence of familiar sound.
Poem by Richard Lee from As If
© 1967 by Richard Lee & John Martin
[This book was presented to me on March 22, 1979.]
Copyright © 2002 -
Poets' Tree: A Celebration of Poetry. All rights reserved.