Poem – The House of Cedar

The House of Cedar

The hooting of the owls, imperceptible
shadow tumbling moonlight, sleek crosses
stationed, lament the mounds, cresting
in the spent redemption scent of cedar

If these nocturnally alive tales, whispered
were heard told, they would of the blazes
legends burnt bright launching embers
staggering high into the society of cedar

The wars once fought, conquered but lost
in the cannon smoke of internal destruction,
brutal forced to build and rebuild in order
to cleave down fathered trunks of cedar

Now their drums lifeless bellow only daffodils,
reflecting on early spring and growing numb
assertive above a dry cover of sonorous sprigs,
cascading from square-cracked branches of cedar

The hooting owls have nothing to speak of
only echo, watching the hunters moon sneak
the expanse of darkness, quiet as the ears forgotten
the wisdom of barrel-shaped cones of cedar.

Alex Maxwell
© ® 2018

For Poem Kubili