Two Contemporary Poets

Spring, 2004

Robert Bohm

Winter Note to Adriana

Which twig is it, shooting from which other twig

on what branch? There must be

one that centers the whole picture for us, but I

can't find it. Only

a random burst is there, of this twig and that twig

and this branch and that, a chaos

of offshoots jutting at odd angles

like thoughts in a mind that meditates

on everything at once. Completely

beyond logic, the tree exists. That its wildness

panics us, making us want to see it

as more orderly than it is, is gratuitous. If children

wake or don't wake from nightmares now

makes no difference. The moon is out

somewhere else, although here it's late morning.

The January light

is ice today. It creaks. Beneath it

the mighty river pours. Beyond us.