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Christopher Neenan

Location: Rome, Italy


Where little was before, not a tremor, not a leaf,
or break in the hand-rolled, filtered beech, hardly
a dark strain, a branch left to hide on, there came now
a tree in a muddle of mutability. Because of the

Orpheus song or a Blackbird heard where mud and
frost combined. When all was quiet the squirrel dug
a scrap of land up and spilt the cornucopia acorn
of birth, beginnings and changes. Out of silence came

the trees out of winter out of woods and homes and
dens, not in anxiety and fear as once did I. But with
that they have, a crafty ear to the silence. Their hearts

hear more of the call, clamor, and cry for what must
be, the Song of Orpheus, making wake to something.
It all has to do with the hope in the floor on Horsenden.