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Thursday, July 26, 2007


by Brenda Varda

Underneath my dark
dry spread of flowering branches
old ones hold small ones,

tender thin saplings
shivering in absent wind,
bodies' naked stalks.

Frail flailing runners
refuse to root for nourishment,
fleeing violent storms,

wither without water,
while thunder growls in dust clouds
made by stones on wheels.

Others of their kind
slice and chop in summer heat:
grove and bones in flame.

Sunlight cannot help -
severed limbs refuse to sprout
in red-soaked soil.

Long ago my wood
framed the arc of covenant,
shaped a crown of thorns,

now but brief respite -
bower for broken blossoms
clinging into night.

Brenda Varda is a playwright, poet and performer in Los Angeles, CA. Her works have been performed at The Met, The Evidence Room, 24th Street Theatre, Unknown Theatre, and she is the founder of Wordspace, a writer’s studio, providing classes and workshops for the community. She is currently in the MFA program at UCR.