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 Spirit Chimes

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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