Poem of the Moment
Every few weeks we pop a new poem up here to read or listen to. Enjoy!
Rooted
It comforts to know trees can care
for each other. Beneath the earth
they hold hands, and even the stump
of felled oaks have roots that keep
them alive, a network that nurtures
the wounded. I wonder if a book
placed next to another can tell whether
it contains hurt, lines made of cut glass
and recollected knives, and if this is why,
after a length of time, all books lean
on each other. They may not grow or
have birds to house, still, they can speak
and record questions like, ‘If a book
goes unread, was it ever real?’ &
’If a book is read too much, is it super
natural?’ To be read, to be real, red,
reeled, one word at a time into life,
is that not why I am here to begin
with, to be convinced a world exists
that I cannot see, just above my head
perhaps, airy, homely, green? I lie
in the clearing I call a living room.
I rest my back against my tall Billy.
I hold my own hands.
~ Omar Sakr