poem

 The Dead Don't DanceThe old dead trees don ’t move an inchIn the summer gustsAt most a doddering stiffnessThe punch drunk staggerOf an old prize fighterWhile all that whirling curving swayOf green limbered branchesWhooshing in the winds around itThe dead don't hear the musicOnly the living can danceBrushing the dust from the air In billows of undulating rhythm Only the black crows pay me a visitPerched high up on skinny brittle limbsCawing back and forth like estranged sisters The song birds never alight hereOnly scavengers allowedScanning the fields for carrionBefore launching their diving attacksI pray for a stormThe violence of wind To snap my hollow trunk in half 7/14/22

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - July 14, 2022 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs