Scott Owens

S c o t t  O w e n s  

    Run Towards It or Wait

Something’s coming,

only a shadow still,

shrinking in the doorway,

backlit, ominous, unclear,

taking different faces

as it comes.

You don’t know what it is,

whether it should be feared

or welcomed, but don’t call it fate,

doom, or inspiration.

In fact, avoid calling it anything.

You’ll never know how close you come

to seeing the scars of another,

knowing the nature of what is

not us unless you learn

to see not what is coming,

but always only what comes.

    Totenbaum

And the dead tree gives no shelter

—T. S. Eliot

The dead tree waits,

leaves dried up and blown away,

roots withered and useless.

What limbs it had are lopped off

or tucked away inside,

folded like paper napkins.

The old ones surround it,

fresh from Confession,

wrapped in black,

heads bowed, in love

with small places.

The dead tree waits for planting,

for the smell of rain,

for spring after spring, unborn.

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