The Slow Falling of a Tree

There is an ancient riddle
involving a tree
and a forest
and perhaps a sound.

I wasn't there
so I didn't hear,
but I think
I found the answer
in the clapping of one hand.

What is the riddle, then
of barbed wire
and flames
and a growing silence?

The answer may be found
in numbers etched
into soft flesh;
in acrid smoke
rising to heaven;
and the slow falling
of a tree.

And if the tree were chopped,
If the hand were bound
If the silence grew,
minute by minute by hour by day
by heart and soul
until it covered the land,

Would it matter,
do you think?
I wasn't there
I didn't hear.
Perhaps it never happened
after all.

Counting Infinity

I wonder about the
infinity of light
that shattered
in a single Breath -
and the dust of Adam
that scattered, a
sweeping whirlwind of
limitless everywhere upon
the earth, and the stars
that Abraham counted -
numberless,
and distant,
and cold fire.

We counted
time by moonlight
and threads of
blue -
Exquisitely finite
and eternal,
a holy cadence
of one
plus one
plus one again
a never-ending measure
of binding
and grace.

So I wonder,
with all the counting
of all the endlessness
of stars and dust
and light
and time
and one
plus one
plus One -

what happens when
six million -
when twelve million -
when a thousand -
when a single
one
disappears
from infinity