Epithalamion
       

The elm weaves the field's late light, this hill
hanging from the tree's roots like the moon
from its shadow and the whole
world beneath suspended.

Roots knead the earth's thick sorrow.
Still, leaves from this.
From this unshackling, birdsong.

I am a blade of corn where you kneel,
wind and quaking stalk.
The elm's body a vase of poured sky.

The tree will die.
Someday, the tree will die.

For now, this axis—
what we choose to compass by.

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Copyright © 2017 Hannah Fries All rights reserved
from Little Terrarium
Levellers Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission