Beams

If thoughts grow the woods,
Then lines thread the lights

That pierce and edge words,
Leaf, root, stem, and branch.

Shades throw sun and moon,
Half shown, brought down, dimmed.

Shades are lights. The bright
Greens and golds that stir

In blue arms of shade,
The red flecks of blooms

On the brown and gold
Strewn floors of it all—

These are what the lines
Pull through the thoughts’ gloom.

The days, and, at times,
Nights, would be too bright

Were it not for thoughts
We grow to dim things,

But then these threads slip
Through the leaves and gleam.

Odd Lots

Each word is its own dark neck
Of the woods, each name its own

Dark bird known to sing strange songs
Folks hear and try to sing too,

Not quite sure, though, what they’re for,
Why they like them, why they try,

Or what to do. We’re odd lots,
All of us, mixed bags, all sorts.

Shake us up and our songs talk.
Shake us hard and our words sing.

Who knows which words sing the best
Or which songs might mean the most?

Tunes hold thoughts that hold their tongues
In this dark neck of the woods.