Tree Faith

Crackling night, when fireflies doze
hidden in the etchings of a wood cut triptych
unfolded ceremonially, linen covered corpse
chilled alcoves with flowers over scents of death.
I still smell it, the remnant of rain,
still feel the sizzle of a resurrection morning.
Thought the would be shade vampiric,
a zombie drone, soul-less and drained,
Vincent Price chasing villagers over crumb swept lanes.
Or maybe Odin, eagle-splayed for siphoning wisdom,
rune scribed branches bearing crows, the constant drip
of Nordic blood, scribbling on Yggdrasil – a vernal cup,
sustaining placid virgins in their insouciance,
ringed by satyrs and the debauched preaching
peace on a battlefield,
or planting hyacinths where lovers fell,
or chanting freedom.
I often feel compelled still to wonder at
my ever present tree faith.

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