The Copado Cactus Poem by Matthew Coombe

This morning I walked a winding trail
from this cabin through the woods.
The air was warm,
thick from last night’s rain.

Fallen pine needles softened
on the wet roof tops.
It was so still
not even the crowns of the trees swayed.

The only sounds, the drops of damp
falling through the highest parts
of the spiny canopy.
Though none of them ever seemed

to reach the ground.
It brought to mind
one of those rainmaker musical instruments.
How all those tiny pieces

tumble down through the many levels
one at a time.
And how they also never finish their fall.
There was a surprising absence of life.

No grouse to peck it’s way through the third stanza.
No rabbit to chase an adverb
through the final phrase.

I felt like Noah.
Making his final checks
before casting off,
making sure all were accounted for.

Then turning off all the lighs,
locking all the doors,
damping down every fire.