Poetry: The Shrike

I search the glade for a sign

but they have strayed beyond its course

their rigid limbs stroke skies divine

and headlong mine touch earth by force

The husk and cone the needle, bark

no organs hold that wood impress

such dreams as animate the lark

reminding spring to confess.

Now winter widows all but weed

and starves the cries of fiscal shrike

boots trample fragile chestnut seed

and fronds succumb to frosts hard strike

Trees gaze toward the longed-for spring

transfixed their roots in earthly bliss

tho in life’s wood snared we sing

the fire of faith it’s the love we miss.

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