I can tell from the way
they are staring at shadows on the ground
that the voice-bearers have come
from that place where
trees are not life-giving.
Two nights ago, One was here with them
Whose longing, love, and pain woke my soul,
deep-buried,
which sleeps through winter,
moth-like.
He is not here with them now.
I am awake
because I know
what the voice-bearers do not.
“You come here, but you will not look up.
You cannot see while you are looking down,” I say.
Apparently they cannot hear either.
“The broken whispers of leaves
lift you beyond this thin veil of earth,”
I keep speaking,
alive with moonrise.
I was not awakened to be silent.
The voice-bearers’ backs are still bent with illusive burdens.
“Look up, look up, look up.
From seeds swallowed dead, trees rise holy.
Roots reach deep and branches high.”
A weeping woman among them lifts her head.
“Ah, yes, you too are awake,”
I say through the wind and the fallen light, pushing away time.
“You will see, and
you will not be wrong
when you call Him Gardener.”
She is struck breathless,
for a moment washed in starlight,
until she forgets
the shadows are untrue.
But soon she will know
all that is real is in a glimpse
of moonlight tangled in trees.
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