Hillside in Negative
The testament of Sierra oaks is distance. Limbs clutch sky
but trunks sequester. Tap roots wrench through dirt
to bedrock. Others crisscross blind but sure in dappled light.
Strangled silence, omertà, born of ancient necessity,
rules above cracked earth, but tunneling secrets linger.
Listen—just by that pedestal
where scarred black bark meets soil. Mute thoughts
burl too slow for words. Something older than ears
resonates, but it takes more time than you’ll have.
Richard Manly Heiman lives in the pines on the slope of the Sierra Nevada. He works as an English teacher and writes when the kids are at recess. Richard has been published by Rattle, Vestal Review, Sonic Boom, Spiritus (Johns Hopkins U.), and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from Lindenwood U. and is a two time Pushcart Prize nominee. His URL is poetrick.com.
