The snow is gone and the earth still damp, but dry enough
to wander out, so I take the dogs and look now for the trees
I heard crashing in the winter wind, fierce winds rattling
my windows and my nerves, and swaying the uppermost
branches of the trees, snapping some of them off at their
base.
A loud crack rings out to announce their defeat, or the soft
hush
of a tree blown over, dragging its roots out of the ground
and slicing
down through an old forest, slowing its descent, perhaps
even
fighting its fall, trying to keep itself aloft, tall and
straight and strong,
yet lowered as into a grave, its landing soft and
unheard.
We found them, the dogs and I, lying where they fell to die
alone
or in great piles, whole groves gone down in Nature’s fury,
succumbing
to what must be, nature mending itself, left there for us to
find
in springtime’s new promise of life, in our own swaying, reminding
us
of ourselves, even as we break out saw and axe and sledge,
clearing up this carnage, salvaging what we can, returning
to earth
what we can’t, burned in a great pyre, sacrificial smoke
rising,
the heavy scent of fir and oak, pitch and pine, rising to
the heavens,
an offering to nature’s power, kept at bay in this winter of our lives.
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