War annexes the landscape
rearranging like rented furniture
the awakened ground that welcomes
your fallen shadow to its own.
A familiar tree bends over you,
its black roots slipping
in the upturned, unsettled earth.
Each frond leans in prayer
in muscled consolation
confessing nothing of the world to come
and less of the world that was.
And too much of the world as it is.
No light in the forest reveals or hints
but everything says Be quiet. Be still.
Hold the smoke-gray of your breath.
And the let that miracle
wrap itself around your mystery.
Let miracle wrap dawn
in the fiery ice of forgiveness and ashes.
Forgiveness issued too little and too late.
Your brave skeleton anchors my heart.
Journey, a deluge
My horse disappears
and I do as well
in the confusion
that is this battle
for life. The new old world.
The hills are hollowed.
The valleys veiled.
The trees, the few left,
What lives does so
beyond light. Outside
these gypsy thoughts
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore, Maryland. His publications include New England Review, North American Review, and Poetry. His most recent publication is The Stars Undone (Duende Press). contact