The Car Rocked in the Wind Like a Cradle
Trees lurch drunkenly in the world’s room, uncles home from the dance alone,
trying desperately to dance their lives into another room, wheeling their ghost partners
back and forth in their empty arms, their hearts spilling. The storm says some things I’ve
never heard before and cannot repeat. I guide the cradle as best I can, too young to
understand the trees, too old to comfort the shadows.
Tonight I am alone and yet I still repeat the trees’ mistake that is a mistake only
because I repeat it, dear uncles, and the old trees dance with the older shadows while the
cradle blinds the gentle roar of the wind. I stop at a crossroads and wait the wind quiet.
I climb out and listen and it repeats what it was saying. The cradle ticks and rocks.
My body says something I’ve never heard before. I climb out. I hadn’t realized.
I climb in and its engine starts me. Now the travelers say some things I’ve never
heard before. Dear trees, not even the wind repeats them.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2013 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.