Foraging for wood on the mountain


This time the wooded

mountain gave up words. Wild,
unbridled verbs thickened the air.
Nouns feathered the ground. It was clear
the leaves were distressed, by the harshness,
the unveiling, as if secrets and belief
were meant to hide forever. No one knows
how the trees’ bark peeled, how to distinguish
the truth among so many naked trunks. Versions
differ. Too many adjectives were lost. What is
disaster, anyway? Words can only describe sorrow.

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim
Inspired by Jack Gilbert’s poem.

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