William Conelly

Treasure

A hidden crows' keep jostles the bright wind
some ninety feet above pine carpetings,
while branch by branch, up climbs the stripling boy
who's dreamt a silver cache of coin and rings.
Cheek daubed with pitch, one wrist and elbow skinned,
he hugs the rough shaft toward its aerie top,
and feels his childish wish subsumed in joy
of adult strength and reach.
Then comes the pop
beneath his weighted foot as gravity
rebukes him. Down he drops, flailed neck to thigh
by breaking branches, leading new debris
to the heaped earth where, gasping and contrite,
he shall behold fall through the shaken sky,
one pearl bead, like the memory of light.

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