the oldest
tangled root of all that's grown,
the secret source
they've never seen.
Helmet and horn of hunters,
old men's truths,
wrath of brothers,
women like lutes...
Branch pushing branch,
not one of them free...
One! oh, climb higher... higher...
Yet they still break.
But this top one finally
bends into a lyre.
*
Rilke
Photograph by Nicole Page-Smith
