The Death I Need
Pounding the deep last drumbeat
after a long slow keening scream
into the moist old language of soil
the oak near the creek went down.
We are ready to plant Shiitake spore.
Cut wood
Collect limbs
Drill holes
Tap plugs
Heat water
Lightly brush on the melted wax of bees
Stack
Stand back
Say grace
Know there is a difference
between
softness and weakness.
10 thoughts on "The Death I Need"
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I love the list. This poem is spoken softly. It calms me.
I love you.
“Know there is a difference between softness and weakness”
I really like that, well done!
It’s from c.p Estes, so is the title. Yup its good stuff
And I love “the moist old language of soil” which gives this the mythic quality that old oak deserves.
Truth.
There ya go, although the title is a little scary at first. Dude, I love the way you are rising to the freaking occasion in these poems. You’re just SAYING it.
A little bird whispered to me once
“I’m not sure why you hide behind so much obscurity. You have a beautiful voice, use it. Just say it.” Thanks Kevin.
Stunning poem.
moist old language of soil
brush on the melted wax of bees
Know there is a difference
between
softness and weakness.
into the moist old language of soil
Great line. And those last three lines!