During my predawn walk
I stepped over you again
at the place you fell in the path.
I’m surprised no one
has carted you off
to sell to summer campers.
Perhaps others too feel sympathy
for your broken back
for the way your limbs
no longer hold the sky.
Or maybe how you’ve rested
your head in a patch of lilies
gives us pause.
For we also wish to press
our ears against their petals
to hear how they blossom so white
in this valley of darkness.
Or possibly, we feel sorry
for your stump, jagged
in its grief, without
a cusp of coppiced hope.
As the sun rises,
I turn back to lay
a gentle hand on your base,
to trace your rings
with my finger, following
the paths you’ve taken,
imagining your reach again
among the clouds.
Copyright © 2019 by AJ Saur, from Set A Flame (Murmuration Press).
Eighth Day Aches 