Round and round they go
             with a ribbon and garlanded
                           flowers in hand.
The bark won’t unravel,
             the tree spells solidness—we
                            grand, oaken, elmed selves
of the ancients. Our pith
            is clean. There’s no pining
                          away for tomorrow, we are
in current respiration,
            we move with the wind.
                          Singular, we are
stunning. In horde,
              we are dense, differing
                            dream. The autumnal
flashiness these days
             is drought-determined.
                          We barely go beyond
the red. Our hollows
              are never vacant. We live
                             to board; we take
the ax. Marbled inside
             the original stem. We were
                          born we don’t know when.
Emily Rosko, “Timbered” from Prop Rockery. Copyright © 2012 by Emily Rosko.  Reprinted by permission of University of Akron Press.

Source: Prop Rockery(University of Akron Press, 2012)

Emily Rosko

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