A Wild Grave
The grave is quickly overgrown.
Even the small trees planted on you
Are consumed in the furious undergrowth
Of Canadian Thistle and Milkweed and loam.
And the path down to you no longer a path
But a hedged-in tunnel of weeds and grass.
Time envelopes the lines of your last place,
But the earth continues to grow. Nature¹s
Relentless attitude, a nonchalance
That buries us and brings us back again.
The pumps of the universe, the blood cells
Of cycles that release you into the world,
Pound through the still spring air. The ants
Are mad as fire while furious gnats take up
A perpetual dance. I catch you in a crown
Of seeded grass, at the corner of my eye,
That last look before you turn and bolt and
Disappear again into the breathing wilds.
Tree of Tule
In a small town in Oaxaca,
the earth is centered in a tree,
the primeval life of the world,
a two-thousand-year-old cypress.
They count out days of rain
and days of drought, its web
of days and years, of decades
that turn like the sun at evening
into centuries. It sucks in smells,
burns with deaths, and is the fabric
of a thousand births. Its blossoms
soak up the universe, and each year
when they drop, its tenacious wood
clings to the edge of the living
in a small town showered
with its starry shadow.
George Moore has published poetry with The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, and others. His fourth collection, Children’s Drawings of the Universe, is being published by Salmon Poetry Ltd. in 2013. In the last two years, he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times, and has been a finalist for the National Poetry Series, Rhysling Poetry Award, Wolfson Prize, and others. He teaches at the University of Colorado, Boulder.