BitterSweetLife

A guest-post by Lindsay Vanderhorst

::

The Wood is a watchman,
Silent as a sentinel stand stone trees.
The wood is waiting.
In deafening silence the vigil is kept,
Lifted boughs stretch to the sunlight.
In still supplication they cry,
“How long ‘til our king comes?—
We crave release from our soil slavery!
How long ‘til our captor-earth is vanquished?”
For when the victor’s foot treads upon the dust
Greenness and flowering will burst forth,
Limbs will lift in a dance,
Hills and heather break forth and sing.
Come, long awaited captain and king.

::

This poem is a companion to the post below.