The Pruned Tree by Howard Moss

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