Sunday, February 1, 2009


The bones of aspens, trailing widows’ veils,
lean eastward, where the sun shone till the shroud—
wet, gray and heavy—smothered it. Thick cloud
hangs dripping in the branches. Mourning wails
are quenched by fog. Half-hid, the abandoned trees
sink roots in memory for anchor, tilt
their heads toward vanished dawn, and tuck the silt

of springs and summers past around their knees.

Snow fell last night. Dark morning is the price,
but all the aspen trees stand wreathed in light,
each upstretched fingertip ablaze with white
where frozen flame engulfs the grove in ice.
It does not matter now if sun returns.
Who stares into remembered fire, burns.

©2002, Abbey of St. Walburga. Reprinted from Landscapes: Poetry by Sister Genevieve Glen, OSB. Revised Edition. Virginia Dale CO: St. Walburga Press, 2008.

Part II of "Town Folk of the Mind" will be posted later this week.

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