The Calm Trees

In Memoriam--W. D. Snodgrass (b. 1926 / d. 2009)

Is it time?
Do all things
drop like needles
to the heart,
or is life
really that easy?

A dense forest
of cacao, mint
bark--the closest
thing to nature
I've seen all day.

Broccoli crowns
covered in oil
splattered Saramago's
masterpiece
on my lunch break;
the tomatoes too
were especially
juiced up.

Nearly fallen asleep
on the train toward
West Trenton or
wherever it was headed,
I had no mind for
lines and lyrics,
just a mind for blind,
soft dreams, an echoing
lemur or ark filled
up with strangers.

Later on up to now
a pit of scorn inside
still has little use
for any crisp art--
there is much more room
dodging, and sips of
cranberry juice, and
a bronze sunset I forgot
to get up from my
bed to watch. Is
it so easy, then?

How does one get
there, and how does
one stay too?
Can there be no
easy way out--
can there be no
platter open
and waiting?

Tomorrow let the
trees be calmer,
the chill be paler.

Let the traffic
catch our eyes
and the graffiti
hearken to the sky
the way the water
can reflect.

Sometimes anyway,
when the hair
has greyed like grass
through the winter months.