George Ellenbogen

Only the hair unsettles us: a crew cut
of needles on one declares
it will survive, acquire seasons
of growth, graduate
the way pines do, even here
on this powdery incline;

the other gives us fits each fall
after the caterpillar siege
when it leans over water
curling towards mortality
as if seeking a transfusion
of God knows what,

where water’s speech glints
late fall’s darkening skies
and twigs, bare, shudder
as wind guides the temperatures down.
Water knows the stillness
that’s ahead, moves incessantly like children
released from school
rushing from the reach of darkness.

We’ll wait on the tree to acquire
its heft, the way we always wait
for the other child
who has stared at the sky
for too long and is running
to catch up

and never does.