“Tree Between Two Countries”
Great-horned owl flew east over
a craggy coastline, every night
passed through different
phases of the moons,
soared within range of a fig tree
that teetered on the edge of a
multi-layered, sandstone cliff-face,
battered by angry waves and sea foam,
hugged the precipice with coils
of roots half-buried, half-revealed
crescendoed in and out of the stonework
like a lattice of waves.
Myriad of creatures housed
within moist, fertile
underbrush; thick, cobwebbed
branches twisted eternally toward the
sunlight; disfigured ladder stretched,
its limbs hide several hundred
miles above in a thick cloud
of impenetrable vapors
where fly and roost the most mysterious
avians never glimpsed by mortal eyes.
Plethora of flora furled
around the trunk, bundles of
grapevines grew unimpeded
in patches of royal blue,
clasped stems entwined in
leafy, wooden rivers joined with
the thick, thorny tendrils of a
black rose — over-ripe,
leaning toward the earth.
Locked, oak chest buried within a
hollowed-out shrine beneath the roots,
held a fire stolen back by the gods,
guarded by the watchful eyes of the owl
(with its 360° vision and immense province
of flight, the raptor spies an isle northwest
ordinarily out of sight),
people seeking peace unaware that
their armistice laid top a ridge
left uncharted a few miles out at sea,
proved, instead, that life did not exist
with mathematical and philosophical proofs;
murdered one another for centuries
despite answers hidden poorly
just beyond their field of vision —
kingdom of zealots to the southeast,
across the fig tree’s massive circumference,
orchestrated prayers loudly in droves;
prepared crusaders to invade the forest and
burn sacrificial lambs deep in the
heartwood — scar torn open and
charred.
Fig tree roots cried salt-water tears,
condensed and splashed on its
dense outer layers, as the owl learns
that it can unlock the chest with its beak.
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