We come to it
After a walk
Through a field
Late afternoon
Shadows closing in
Sunlight already golden.
Old tree,
Its beard scraggly
Flowing with time
The memory of souls
Drifting over the land
Having left life and bodies
Graced with hair, all colors,
Caressed, remembered, loved
But unwilling to leave
Entirely for the other place
So strands grab the old limbs
To hold on, to stay behind
In the blood red sun
Shadows crisscrossing
Fields, days, other shadows,
Even our thoughts as we pass
Beneath the tree and on
And on.
Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas, was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away, is published by Kelsay Books.