A Cloven
Tree
Time grows
in ripening apples
falls far
far away from a cleft tree,
rots in
ruts, bedded in clotted ground
by perspiring
muddy oxbow lake,
where slow those worms sleep
burrowed not deep enough within,
beneath that spreading parent leaf.
Cloven in
two by one pure blue
lightning bolt
that swift struck like snake
venom brings forth
gnarled twisted face,
carved leathery on a thick peeling bark,
drawn in
screams upon a dreaming dark.
Time comes
in ripening apples,
and a cloven
tree will fruit and shed
a basketful
before it’s dead.
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