Three Poems: Hanging in
the Broken Lane

1. In the Trees

Oak trees and twisted cord,
old raven grips an iron-gray
branch. Mist wet on slumbering
grass, an odd silence in the air.
Where have we seen this
before, wind driving green
curtain of leaves, while night
streams silently from fragile
sky? Road studded with stones,
ice heave and heavy wagon
wheels, ruts and tracks sunk
deep in broken, weedy lane.

2. The Depth of Roots

Field mice scurry, burrowing
loam, and yellow eyes
burn through gnarled
undergrowth. Wolves’
breath and everywhere
catching throats, a sudden
gasp or prayer along
the scarred, slashed rim
of the world. Secret doors
creak out into the dark, strings
wound on harps, songs
sting invisible depth of roots.

3. The Lost Eye

Here at memory’s well
dreams cast their feathery
nets, black as the hooded
eyes of owls rimmed with
coal. Shadows circle
beneath oaks, and suddenly
like a pebble missed in mud, a
rounded river stone passed
from hand to hand, gray
marble or a lone bead dropped
from a necklace string, the lost
eye aching for its socket of bone.

Steven Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steven Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.