Ribs of a Tree: James Adamson

They’re so vital we almost
create their breath

Their breathing becomes
a haunted hollow as they die.

The winter is like a
moment before a silent collapse
as frost and snow blanket and
reveal their still ways of

Their ideas flow in and out
of our minds as the air around us
is like a current under the ocean.

Summer arrives and the vision
of them is like an army of surrender
an arrogance of passive display.

These giants even tease us into thinking
they can only take in so much, in
one breath.


From the self-published book of poetry, “Birds Kill My Wings”(2001).