It was me.
I cut the tree in the woods you couldn’t hear falling;
you were too far away.
Closer now, I am calling to you – Can you hear?
I will wait for you, wait for your answering call,
wait amid these leaves and branches,
wait.
Roots may form, still I will wait.
Moss can grow, wait, I wait.
What will I hear?
Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind
and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work
appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest,
NY Literary Magazine, and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ.
Tags:
Poetry