Don't — this frosted branch
is weighing the Earth — one move
the leaves and count all over.
No wonder it's winter again.
Try! How long can it take?
Don't move your lips — the ice
will only darken — with a knife
it opens your whispers
as if they weigh too much — your mouth
caked open, trying to say something
and on the snow, on your fingers
ounce by ounce hollowed out
and its stillness.
Don't! Holding your breath
won't save time or hiding things — your lips
will close on a soft, summer evening
a breeze start up, a train
crossing some river — deep in your mouth
tasting like one name nearer to another
— don't move! this branch
is weighing an Earth once heavier than
sunlight
than the ice on your tongue — say nothing.
Nothing. Not even the trembling
that comes down from this tree, closer and
closer
Simon Perchik is a retired attorney and fulltime poet with a career spanning several decades. He is one of the most prolific and consistent poets out there. He has been published in Agni, Jacket, The New Yorker, Poetry, Devil Blossoms, Partisan Review, The 13th Warrior Review, Gnome and elsewhere and has twenty or so collections under his belt. He resides in East Hampton, NY.