Roots
       

Consciousness is the first hurt;
The word springs from the wound.
After that the first red flower;
And then the land itself, humid,
Intense with cedars, heavy with
Keen water and the purple smear
Of mountains and white stone's
Weight. The length of a meadow
Lays on a stripe, and the wind
Singing alone in weathered grasses.
But these are common hurts.
It is Love that denounces happiness, and
Friends who cast the first stone.
I write them this note of thanks.

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Copyright © 2012 George Scarbrough All rights reserved
from Under the Lemon Tree
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission