What I know today is no more
than what I knew at ten,
clouds in a blue sky, until
language comes to explain:
so it is the image that
starts words, the way the rising
of the sun awakens a house
and puts the coffee on.
What I knew then was ribbons
in the hillside dawn, soft rain
through an open window,
that for every bird that fell
there was a sleight of hand.
What I see today is a ridge
and a boy below a tree.
A crow flaps low toward
the night. What he believes
comes from the image that
he sees or the image
someone, his uncle say,
has seen and changed to mean,
as clouds are seen, as these
words came to be: image
of a boy beneath a tree.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
Although he grew up in rural West Virginia, Trent Busch has lived in Georgia for many years now. He own a small place out in the country where he has a workshop and builds furniture. His recent book of poetry, not one bit of this is your fault, was published by Cyberwit.net in 2019.
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