Interpreting Trees

I step out of the day
and I am reborn
among stars;

 

My thoughts turn
with a cast-iron sky,
a perfect fit for lucid
sleep:

wise old myths or
chaos attempting
light shows,
tiny phenomena
wandering here and there
here and there.

 

I want to follow them
to their logical
conclusion, but there
is none,

just one infinity
on the heels of another

and that is their
place amongst gods.

 

Is there enough magic
in their scepters to
materialize these
wisps of hope,

raise the dead of
false love?

 

Trees woven in a web
of secrets only the
black puddles of space
can hear . . .

 

branches stitched from
star to star . . .

 

almost dead,
the soul escaping,

chattering with the branches,
chattering like old friends.

 

I thought I overheard
their secrets and
understood for one
strange moment:

Believe . . .

Pain and trees and solid
ground are an
illusion.

 

All is well.

 

So easy to believe
in this soft-spoken
holiness.

 

Sleek trees still huddled in
a discussion that must
be crucial;

starving for attention
they turn to each other:

bent wires speaking
telepathically of quiet
and impending sleep.

 

Who am I to expect so
much of a world
without a soul,
a day without the
maternal moon?

 

The day:
transient jolts to
my ailing pride,
desires and desires . . .
Pre-Raphael love,
white wings fluttering . . .
all that refined art we
cling to with
our battered hearts.

 

The skeletons are making
much more sense.

 

Beautiful, the sound
of emptiness
they describe.

 

One last star falls
through my dreams . . .

all is well.

 

Patricia Joan Jones

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Cascade's picture

I stepped out of the day and

I stepped out of the day and my spirit was reborn here within your words...

A crazy day reeking havac on my inner peace and all I had to do was come here and breathe in all this space...

"And all is well"

Thank you, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

patriciajj's picture

Thank you so much for

Thank you so much for reminding me that writing can serve a higher purpose, and that alone makes it worthwhile. If I can help anyone in even a small way, then life itself has meaning. Thank you for your beautiful comment. I cherish it. 

Starward's picture

How did I miss this three

How did I miss this three days ago?  Forgive me for failing to read it at once.  Thw cismic imagery is in place, but the meaning of the poem is very human and very earthy.  The science fiction writer, James Tiptree Jr., published a collection of stories under the general title, Star Songs Of An Old Primate---because the Tiptree stories, while being very literate space operas, were always very human and earthy in their emotional meaning.  Now you are making more star-songs for us, and I think, personally, they have a way of becoming part of one's whole world---an effect few, and only the greatest, poets can claim.  Like Virgil . . . Dante . . . Tiptree . . . and Patricia Joan Jones.


Starward

patriciajj's picture

Thank you for uplifting me on

Thank you for uplifting me on this overwhelming day. I was planning on just going to sleep, but decided to pop in here. Now I can call it, not just a day, but a very good day. I can't thank you enough for those beautifully expressed insights and encouragement.