In the Grove of Aspens

The aspen trees stand tall,

but they gently stand aside,

to let the stealthy passer

silently pass by.

They space themselves like generals

At attention on a march,

Standing in stern assembly,

With straight trunks without an arch.

Their leaves quiver and tremble,

as the slightest wind pass by,

Sometimes they let in spirits

breezing in to live or die.

And at the smallest touch

of the smallest spirit child,

The small green shingles rattle forth

and whisper on for miles.

Their trunks are striped with markings
like eyes cracked opened whole,

to see them stare,

you'd think a while,

since they've seen a living soul.

While Walking Down Stairs

While walking down stairs,
my knee bends and lifts forward,
and my leg sticks out
at an angle; a ninety degree curve of the leg,
that lowers the foot to the waiting descent.
My back remains upright and my spine remains stiff
as my wavering heels click and smack
each resounding step
on each pounding stair.
I make my way through the clumsy
dance, my bones reined back,
ready to thrash and to whip through the air
waiting below.
Over the stilted stairs
that jingle my joints,
my legs wait to rush,
my feet wait to fly,
down the steps in one swooping flight,
rather than in jagged bounce.
My arms wait at my side,
my elbows slightly bent,
and hunched around like birds' wings,
ready lift,
if I should slip,
down the hazardly jutting stair.