one window
brings attention to
shelves draped
with the skin of
dead animals.
above it,
the window
obscured by swirls
of flowering plants.
hanging from the porch,
tendrils drift
in the Fall breeze,
held against their falling.
below,
hanging from
the window’d shelves,
empty paws dangle
in their stillness,
long ago having chased
themselves away.
the street is still
damp despite a morning
pulled taut by
blue sky.
in 1998,
in a stretch
of forest,
your great friend lay
in a pile, on moss
of forest floor.
one knee pointed up,
one hand on chest,
eyes closed but still
staring up at
patchwork of sky.
supposedly trees
exhibit a shyness
in their canopy,
their bashfulness
making room for
the unabashed sky.
and in 1998,
your great friend lay
in a pile, on moss
of forest floor.
he, still
on forest floor,
still in his stillness,
having attempted
a tackle of
an old tree stump.
the stump,
long since having had
its shyness shorn from it,
stood resolute against
the teen-aged body
thrown at it.
it flexed,
stood still
in its lean
for a moment,
and righted itself,
throwing the human
body back and to
forest floor.
i stood off
to the side,
waiting to see
which would fall
first; the knee
of my friend, he
on his back,
one leg straight,
the other bent
to the sky.
or this stump,
no longer living,
though still
so sure of its life.
zakschafer.com 