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.