Robert Bohm

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Winter Note to Adriana
 

Which twig is it, shooting from which other twig
on what branch? There must be
one that centers the whole picture for us, but I
can't find it. Only
a random burst is there, of this twig and that twig
and this branch and that, a chaos
of offshoots jutting at odd angles
like thoughts in a mind that meditates
on everything at once. Completely
beyond logic, the tree exists. That its wildness
panics us, making us want to see it
as more orderly than it is, is gratuitous. If children
wake or don't wake from nightmares now
makes no difference. The moon is out
somewhere else, although here it's late morning.
The January light
is ice today. It creaks. Beneath it
the mighty river pours. Beyond us.
 
 
 

Copyright Robert Bohm 2004. All rights reserved. 
  
 

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