Dear readers, A poem, an excerpt from Cantab Tango, and a quote. Yours, David Thanks for reading The Sequoia Saga! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. POEM OF THE WEEK: My Fallen Branch Sequoias rebirth themselves when a tree dies—baby trees sprout from fallen branches: semperviren, ever-mothering. If fallen branches sleep, where does my branch lie? How do branches hatch words of wit? Look at my toe— do you spot a viable zygote? Perhaps a simple embryo boy waits to translate his energy into mine. Is mine wasted on immoral literary combat, or poisoned by the bad fruit of moldy sentimental stories? Is my impatience stealing a sprout that could inspire? I find myself pacing the floor, phone in hands, thumbing a lyric without stopping, room-to-room, almost falling down the stairs, losing my screen to sun flares, turning to find the best signal . . . turning between couplets and stanzas to metaphors and stories, turning in search of the fallen branch Father dropped so long ago, as from heaven, semperviren, ever-living, ever-lost, ever-searching— this is my fallen branch, this, my fallen branch. Cantab Tango Excerpt of the week:
Post #7 • Sequoia Shaded
Dear readers, A poem, an excerpt from Cantab Tango, and a quote. Yours, David Thanks for reading The Sequoia Saga! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. POEM OF THE WEEK: My Fallen Branch Sequoias rebirth themselves when a tree dies—baby trees sprout from fallen branches: semperviren, ever-mothering. If fallen branches sleep, where does my branch lie? How do branches hatch words of wit? Look at my toe— do you spot a viable zygote? Perhaps a simple embryo boy waits to translate his energy into mine. Is mine wasted on immoral literary combat, or poisoned by the bad fruit of moldy sentimental stories? Is my impatience stealing a sprout that could inspire? I find myself pacing the floor, phone in hands, thumbing a lyric without stopping, room-to-room, almost falling down the stairs, losing my screen to sun flares, turning to find the best signal . . . turning between couplets and stanzas to metaphors and stories, turning in search of the fallen branch Father dropped so long ago, as from heaven, semperviren, ever-living, ever-lost, ever-searching— this is my fallen branch, this, my fallen branch. Cantab Tango Excerpt of the week:
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