A broken tree’s not made it past the falls.
It’s caught and angled from the river bed
to where the river plunges down and all
the river’s glass is smashed across the edge
to witch’s hair that’s white as fire’s ash,
regathered then, gone dark again as lore
within the water’s falling roar that has
no pause since it’s the constancy of more.
It sounds like rain, the white noise that the heart
endures, the storm between our words that words
just barely mask, the background drone that starts
when life begins and blossoms into birds
and wind, the everything that has no rest
because it lives and life demands no less.
By Ed Hack
I’ve been writing poems from the age of 16, when the world opened up to me and the only way to say what had occurred was in a poem. I wrote free verse for years, was published here and there, then, three years ago, I felt the need for the discipline of metered language and structure, so I turned to the sonnet. In some ways, the sonnet mimics the mind in certain moods—something is seen or felt and the what and how and why are then worked out through phases of discovery which the sonnet provides a model for. Sometimes, with luck and work that actually happens. I’ve been published in Poetry South, Forage Poetry, Hapax, Going Down Swinging, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Dunes Review, Algebra of Owls, Autumn Sky Poetry.
Photo by Le Do