At the Edge of the Woods, Unable to Say It

Indifferent, cold
the working of law.

Or, filled with light
mild, blinding.

Here in the trees
we leave a little of who we are.
In them I don’t stand as tall.
The pines stretch above
and the cliffs.

Water widens. 
Wind slants it with gray,
with lines that trail.

Life is in it
and death.
Cold pierces, teeth tear,
all in that vivid light.

A wind crosses the trees
and all are murmuring.
A fire comes 
and all are burning.

Not this tree’s branches, that tree’s branches,
but a raising and lowering.

One moment a single trunk,
a fistful of needles
alone in its grieving, in its dying.
The next, a green
that spreads along the mountains.

and then night.


caught in edges
mourning, loving, fighting

a trembling of water

—Sarah Webb

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