Snug as a nut,
deep
in contemplation,
where have I been?

Waking up on the night fields,
scattered
with the live buckeye I touch
with both hands, but find
no face in the whorls of bark,
only lean black arms that
stream out over my head.

I'm betting on their dream
of holding me, betting I can
close my eyes and say, I'll be going now,
confident, into sap and wood,

fading traceless to where the next
rainy-eyed saint,
another me,
another you,

nudges through shell,
wriggles through rivers that
sweep their own banks away—

and slow light
rises through
the pearly moon night.
Lean cantatas play.

A Racing Up the Sky - from Eclectic Press - Poems by Tim Bellows; Photos by Kerby Smith:
For Orders/Information call 1-800-431-1579.

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