Suzanne O'Connell | Poet

If A Tree Falls

Multicolored lichen

grow up the legs of night.

My backpack is filled

with lint and stale biscuits.

 

Three times I call out,

Night, This Is Your Last Chance!

But there is no answer.

 

There is always a flame to walk toward.

There is always a hammer.

There is always the wind.

 

In dreams, I walk on a path

that sparkles in the moonlight.

In dreams my backpack is a cage of light.

In dreams, I call out to the night,

and it answers.

 

 

Storyscape, 2016

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