Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Besmilr Brigham—Issue 49, January 2015)

The old house is now Surrounded by Trees

a maple grove hides

the north side windows

and the open front where once

we looked out

on meadow and wolf pond


through a big-leaf fig, flower to



tall lean persimmons


naked trunks late in bud, brilliant

in spring mornings

a symmetry of wood, high over

the yet solid roof

the wind blows

tinsel leaves

in shadow and reflection;

each year

root of the parent tree

goes deeper under the support beams;

high now—high as the old, old pine

(center limb structure bare)

a great small-leaf hackberry

we put out

when it was a wavering stem

reaches its bulk head

like a heavy green flower—

all is rooted underneath

with a mat of intertwining

tendrils; the trees

are growing from my body,

that is heavy with moisture and green


from a time of first planting

—when those we loved

in this house . . .

when my father and mother were not dead