A Poem
The trees of the Santa Monica Mountains
were charred annually, suggesting summers, frustrated,
were dragged on invisible wires
into bright places with bright faces,
an hour from Hollywood.
Encircled by burned and bark-skinned lines,
the heaven-reachers which sustained life on this planet
and never knew when to quit — eventually, they just fell —
we hiked into a clearing for stress-relief from auditions
and found a lone wing with burned-out feathers.
From your shrugging shoulders, the stuffed bookbag, gear-filled,
slipped and disturbed the hard ground, and I chuckled
about how children only ever wished
for wings. In the ash,
you fell to your knees,
cupped the wing in your hands,
and, just like now,
lived in expectation.
.
.
.
For more, please visit O.G. Rose.com. Also, please subscribe to our YouTube channel and follow us on Instagram and Facebook.
