the bank of trees, in still wintery
nakedness, a closet
nothing open, waiting
all hidden, yet awake
each tree a finger, distending
holding something within
sleeves of snow scatter,
disappearing, ground breathing
listening
all this, soulful knowing
past and future
all of this, nothing alive and
yet alive
how?
how did this road get here?
I have been walking
this lane for hours,
cut between the wide stand
of poplars and pines
all this roadside
solemnity suggesting someone?
they say a baby
is the essence of a human
where did the baby go?
everything within me
whispers
here!
by chris woodhull
Monks & Mannequins 