On Good Friday Last,

I ran through a wood;
silva bathed in silver.
And in the lesser light
with shades crossing my path,
my laboured breath could not
but gasp at upended
trees. Prostrate trunks
and exposed roots
reminded me
that these giants
too cross over, in
the bosom of their
kin, in the ken that they
are never alone.

On Good Friday last,
on the forest floor,
I discovered that when
trees fall, they
sing, whether I am
there to hear them,
or not.

2 thoughts on “On Good Friday Last,

  1. shoreacres says:

    I’ve learned a new word: silva.

    The poem as a whole is lovely and mysterious, and a wonderfully creative way of rephrasing the old saw about “if I tree falls in the forest, does anyone hear it?” That saying seems to presuppose trees as wholly inanimate objects: unlike your poem, which imagines them with hearts, and connections to the world around them.

    • agjorgenson says:

      Glad to know you learned a new word! My first parish was in the middle of a northern forest, where I regularly ran into silvaculturalists, so I think that is where I learned this root. You might be interested in knowing that Luther has a delightful line in his commentary on 1 Cor. 15 where he speaks about our “having converse with trees, and all creation.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s