A poem by Simon Perchik

 
What was siphoned off the sun
could just as easily be this tree
and each branch carried out

struggling with moss and faraway
– who can tell it’s not this tree’s
last chance to sort the light

as if going somewhere was still possible
that love too is possible – all this wood
even in winter arriving to gather you up

as leaves, shining, smelling from dew
already beginning to blossom, impatient
for arms and shoulders and the fire.

 

 

Simon’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.