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All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands photo

after Sufjan Stevens

I want to be remembered like this: taut, defeated
by my own eagerness. A crude emerald whorl.

In green tandem, we twirl, sisters
to some bright, unknown sound.

Through the grove of voices, we tumble light,
feathery. A trail of down in our wake, haphazard,

meaningless. A primal scene, this dance.
We step and twist as if to rearrange

something fundamental, as if we’ll come out of this
somehow better: prettier, more charitable. We dance

like deer shedding antlers against oak, a scorpion
parting itself from now-old skin. Dance ache

and blood, fury and feral. Slough off
every modern notion. Still, there is no end

in which we achieve what we want.

All of it, all of it: for the old clapping trees.
All of it, all of it: for the root labor of love.



image: Aaron Burch