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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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