Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

October woods harbor trees.

Dead, dry, free standing trees.

Their roots reach deep, through a blanket

Of curling rustling leaves.

Oranges, yellows, reds,

They ridicule the embers

That will engulf their confused apparitions.

I drag them from the Earth.

Root and all, axe in hand,

The head of which I sharpened

With a piece of granite;

New England is made of it.

With each dead tree fallen

A rush of brush scrambles

For a piece of blue canopy.

Burn the forest floor

Without abandon.

Tired, desiccated wood releases energy.

Sticky blood like napalm

Keeps the flames licking high

Into midnight sky.

I have a bed of coals but

I can never abate my thirst for flame;

Keeps me surrounded with

Light in order to write.


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