To the west of the highway, cedars
burlapped for winter. Trappist monks moving
slow as a car in storm. Snow on their shoulders.
The bushier ones came in A-frames, hinged at the top.
Rodents scramble up one side. Look at the world from
the peak, scuttle down. Their story, the tracks in the snow.
Everything is after. Do you not find it so? Then,
a road shrine long past. The beginning of a descent.
I was wondering, do you remember the view from there?
Or did that cloth you were called to
enforce a forward focus? Is God's voice when it calls
like snow falling: a flurry that wipes out tracks?
I've been stopped in mine ever since.
Compton, Anne. "How We Care for Trees in Winter" Modern Canadian Poets. Jones, Evan and Todd Swift, eds. Manchester: Carcanet Press Limited, 2010. 152.
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