The Pruned Tree

“Not easy to see here, but Howard Moss’s words have brought me comfort when I needed them. As a torn paper might seal up its side, Or a streak of water stitch itself to silk And disappear, my wound has been my healing, And I am made more beautiful by losses. See the flat water in the distance nodding Approval, the light that fell in love with statues, Seeing me alive, turns its motion toward me. Shorn, I rejoice in what was taken from me. What can the moonlight do with my new shape But trace and retrace its miracle of order? I stand, waiting for the strange reaction Of insects who knew me in my larger self, Unkempt, in a naturalness I did not love. Even the dog’s voice rings with a new echo, And all the little leaves I shed are singing, Singing to the moon of shapely newness. Somewhere what I lost I hope is springing To life again. The roofs, astonished by me, Are taking new bearings in the night, the owl Is crying for a further wisdom, the lilac Putting forth its strongest scent to find me. Butterflies, like sails in grooves, are winging out of the water to wash me, wash me. Now, I am stirring like a seed in China. –Howard Moss”