Cedars Say Nothing
Even the catkins
of wild cherries
and the paddle fingers
of the locusts
speak in the wind.
Cedars say nothing.
When wind riffles their
wall of crowded hands,
fingertips of green amoebas
devour every sound,
leaving only umber duff.
Enter a cedar grove and
you'll hear
cries of gulls gone,
bell buoy clang gone,
ferry thrum, light
plane, all gone.
Breath gone,
pulse, heartbeat gone –
then, suddenly, the elusive
wheeze of the warbler.
JAMES LENFESTEY has published two collections of personal essays, seven collections of poems, edited three poetry anthologies and co-edited Robert Bly in This World (University of Minnesota Press). Read more.
Permission granted to reprint from Red Dragonfly Press, publisher of EAST BLUFF: Mackinac Poems Old and New, Red Dragonfly Press, © 2019.