Monday's Poem

a sunbeam levels late onto
dead spruce pavéed with lichen,
oxidized jewellery blushing blue
on the bones of the ever gray

... their needles shed, cleft and rusted,
soon to spark the long, cold burn ...

the moon—now up—nothing but
a random stroke of a match
against a strike-anywhere sky

© Marie Clausén

I find myself living life from tree to tree, I also find myself being published tree by tree: "a spruce" found its way into Bywords Quarterly last winter; my "aspen" appeared as a Monday's Poem a few short months ago. This latest offering remains untitled, yet it, too, springs from sylvan roots. Inspiration to see, truly see, and to write, twinkles at me from every crumpled star of maple; rains down on me from every tinselled larch ...

Photo by Chris Traynor