At the Edge of the Woods, Unable to Say It

1.

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.

2.

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.

Morning 

and then night.

3.

alternation:

caught in edges

mourning, loving, fighting

a trembling of water

—Sarah Webb