See Beyond the Missing Leaves
There is a dead dear rotting hollow out back
beyond the bleached white bones of a birch.
He was a friend of ours.
Chameleons on this same path, this Highway 61.
At the loss of the petals we may wonder
of the magnolia and of ourselves,
and of the chrome horses
of which we’ve heard Dylan speak,
and of the new neighbors, the strangers,
who just moved in years ago,
and if by grace we shall ever see
beyond the missing leaves our souls underneath.
And this morning the birds speak without words
about the arrival of spring.
But,
are we listening?
Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in Punch Drunk Press, The Wax Paper, the Inflectionist Review and numerous other publications. His website is www.JoeBisicchia.com
