The Bone-Loom and the Cedar Sky A.R.ABDULLAH The wet earth breathes a hymn of loam and thread, Where wild moss cushions where the forgotten tread. I press my ear against the birch-bark seam, To pull the marrow from a waking dream. A sudden swallow cuts the violet air, The sky is open and completely bare. I drink the river from a folded leaf, And feel a strange, sweet loosening of grief. The pine-pulp whispers what the roots all know: How deep the silence before the hemlocks grow, How stone turns gold beneath a sudden light, How quiet wings can carry all the night. I am the cedar, I am the cold grey silt, I am the house that moss and lichen built. No heavy lock, no iron chain or key, Just green-dark woods drinking the rest of me.
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