Member Poem

The waterline is brocade on the stream
Silver at the rising in the east
And copper at the falling in the west
On the mountains' rim's a fiery crest
Calling to the sprawling beast
Return, return, return

The treeline's shingled canopy
Could never break the ancient slumber
Nor wake us from the dreams beneath the bark
But within the trunk and ancient dark
Worms consume fresh timber
Before a table can emerge
Before an empty chair is filled

Before a song is written on a page
That song is held in branches
And the restless wind blowing from the south
That song will never fill a living mouth
As it empties on the soil, a leaf that dances
Heavy with that music
Is unbolted from the stem

Echoed in the hollow crags
And sung by trees in all their forms
Return, return, return
Return, return, return