Gathering

Jane Gibian

From the loamy sable soil, you’re born

with fern frond and grass stalk, neck

tapered as a leaf blade. When you leave,

the stems of your limbs fall away,

husks sinking into the layers

of mellowing leaf mould and clay.

In the breadth of your mind germinates

another tree, feeding on the pabulum

of the forest floor, its branchlets ribbed

and downy, young shoots sour to chew.

A feathery cowl of lichen might adorn

your sternum, or pearled-grey stripes

spread around the trunk. Grieve less

as sorrow coils, quietening into

a continuous self. Panicles of muted

blossom erupt from your fingertips:

the cycle turns as your cortex begins

to ripen under the beetle-limbed sun.

Jane Gibian is a Sydney poet whose most recent publications are her collection Ardent (Giramondo, 2007), and issue #83 of Wagtail poetry magazine (Picaro Press, December 2008).