The Sin Tree


Look. They are putting

Garlands on the sin tree.

The maypole dancers move

In a circular time,

Trailing their ribbons.


The pile is erect in three dimensions.

The uncut cord trails into time dimly

Beyond memory.


Look. There is the grove

We once cut down.

There is singing among the trees

And a flapping of wings.


There they are,

Huddled in a mist of rain.

A lot of little gods

Huddle at their feet.


© Russ Lewis July 1, 1964