James Henry Knippen

through the window
weeping willow maple
oak and alder
poplar and poetrys
most popular
where played in the hollow
knot of a tree
high up and growing so
quickly the girl 
was wrung like a tulip
in the twisting bramble
and hanging leaves
where horizon would be.
no sun instead 
deadwood tendril chokes on              
a pale blue leg.                                   
the wind makes her foot kick
petals to begging grass.               
raindrops freckle the glass.

in the wake of
the window a layer
of breath as a
young girl falling in love
with the backyard
remembers how easy
her breath had passed
    through a barbwire fence at
a meadows edge.
 where a sky might be blue
 she savors each
 thumb of poisoned ivy
 leaf a hand held
out to shake and shaking
 in a cold wind.
the skys color in her
other she loves
 the corpse of a window
weeping in rain
with infinite panels
and long black drapes.
 the window is opaque.







At the time this was written, I was reading a lot of poems with poplars in them. I continue to do this, but not on purpose. It is basically inevitable.