inclinations

It’s not even dawn yet, Friend,
and the trees, strangely silent,
scan the sky for signs of the sun’s
itinerary.  One strong oak has
stumbled into the branches of
the beech beside it, weeping
over the futility of roots.
Whole treetops scattered flat
in the dell try to remember
the sky’s expanse.  They don’t
want answers, and i can’t
give them, but when i lean into
the trunk of this white pine,
inscrutable gold light flows
up through its veins, as if
the horizon could not
press us down much longer.

-- Patricia Campbell Carlson