Michael G. Casey

AKHENATEN’S TREE

The cedar of Lebanon grew next door,
boughs stretching straight out from the trunk
then reaching upwards in prayer.
In summer, magpies and blackbirds loved
to hide in its fine- woven pinnate foliage.

In winter storms the tree lost many small
branches with tight clusters of leathery cones,
a form of self-pruning that did not affect
the tree’s stability, though the layered foliage,
in strong winds, acted as sails that made
the large trunk sway slightly and nudge
a wall that finally cracked and fell down.

Just now, I wake from sleep, look up,
and see the sun glide into position right
above the crown as if resting in the tree’s
top cradle; it is a moment of perfect
alignment that opens a secret door
into the sublime--the rebirth of the sun god
just above Akhenaten’s elongated limbs,
divine rays filtering down to embrace
believers moving from Thebes to Amarna.