Death is the center of compromised bark. <br />We see the stark night, <br />not as beauty sprawled on frozen ground, <br /> <br />surrounded by the winter of burly December, <br />but within the silence of that territory, <br />of that splendid ending of breath - <br /> <br />that is what we, in quiet awe, absorb. <br />We hear what is the seizure of sound; <br />the prolific atoms - the mute, unmoving atoms, <br /> <br />the aerodynamic seeds supporting birth. <br />Bruised by impact is the illness of us all, <br />the rings in our bodies used to count the ages, <br /> <br />the years diffused by the quality of eyes, the sheer <br />power of branches, prone instead of reaching <br />where we reach when the earth turns its back. <br /> <br />It is a wooded picture: a stern demise. <br />It sleeps within the impression of stone, <br />hiding only the doppelganger of squirrels. <br /> <br />The purpose leans into grass. The limbs <br />of the world cry for the limbs of a burg; <br />they accept certain depths, as a god is touched.<br /><br />Lamont Palmer (Lamont Palmer)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fallen-tree/
