Sergey Kireev
Yet another beautifully haunting and melancholy poem by John Tagliabue (the other here).  It's not fit for spring but for the grey and silver of the fall and winter, however I couldn't help but share as the words immediately paint pictures with broad brushstrokes in my mind.  Enjoy.


The Bare Arms of Trees by John Tagliabue

Sometimes when I see the bare arms of trees in the evening
I think of men who have died without love,
Of desolation and space between branch and branch,
I think of immovable whiteness and lean coldness and fear
And the terrible longing between people stretched apart as these branches
And the cold space between.
I think of the vastness and courage between this step and that step
Of the yearning and fear of the meeting, of the terrible desire held apart.
I think of the ocean of longing that moves between land and land
And between people, the space and ocean.
The bare arms of the tree are immovable, without the play of leaves, without the sound of  wind;
I think of the unseen love and the unknown thoughts that exist between tree and tree
As I past these things in the evening, as I walk.