17

Deepest down: the age-old,

gnarled root

of all erected things,

hidden source they’ve never seen.

Battle helmet, hunter’s horn,

sayings of the elders,

men in their brother-wrath,

women like lutes …

Branch crowding branch,

none of them free …

Yes one! climb … O climb …

But still they break.

Until at last that highest one

arcs into a lyre.