Aspen Matis

Throw that cane away; let it bounce and belittle

itself among the down rocks. And please don’t look

back to cradle it like Moses’ staff, its blackness unworthy

of glisten, no standout among preset violets.

Yes, your onward sway can cut through fresh swirls,

your knees mincing good faith. Your youth needs

not rewind the loud clocks you may have placed

on high shelves. You look up and see only

incomplete circle on each one. If they provide

wholesome ticks, you would wish

they’re only clearest, the flimsiest of water

over the next bend of pine trees. Resolved, they

are already lunged through, smashed by your

seemingly frail boots. This is what I know of you.

The stars lent faint on my sight as I try to sort

the needles and the cones. I look up

and all the luster comes from your face; my heaves

of air are not from strides the merciless

backwall may have muraled in my mind. Clusters of

violet stay motionless. Blackened canes are

just that. We breathe to see and hunger to feel

what is deeper in the soil than us. Blind me, I

just see a sprig of green from that granite; and

a growth upward webbing cracks for the air of you.