Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
I like trees. I like them a lot.
for Heidi in memoriam
treetops rocking
together apart
in the wind
the too-early chill
of a cousin’s death
*
curled red tongue
of a fallen leaf caught
by a dead twig
without even trying
if dying is an art
*
losing its bark
a rock oak killed
by spongy moths
given over to fungus
sprouts a golden mane
*
autumn’s here
in orange and yellow
black gum leaves
and this world has one fewer
voice raised in praise
falling into the open
mouth of silence
vulture shadows
circling among boulders
of off-white quartzite
grown long in the tooth
fingers of ice linger
in the afternoon shadow
on a rock-walled well
where my face looms
among the far more
circumspect trees
some of whom are dead
but still standing on wind-
toughened roots
others yet to succumb
to infestation or pestilence
late frost or drought
here in the east
we can rarely climb
out of our own lives
one cannot vanish
into the thin air afforded to clouds
or the eyebrows of insomniacs
those who like it cold
have nowhere to go but north
we’re all migrants now
and our first green is in uniform
an antispring of plants
no native bug will touch
descending the mountain
i weave through a thorn scrub
wrought by forestry
and trillions of dollars
swifter than thought
encircling the earth
the silence broken
by a blue-headed vireo
singing his slow dream
crown shyness as they call it
saves the trees
from foreign entanglements
as shrinkwrapped
in ice they glitter
and shed dead limbs
now in my woodstove
a tongue of flame makes
a knot explode
smoke from my chimney
sinks to the ground
and ghosts off into the forest
where i soon follow
over the ice
with chains on my feet
seeking patches of snow
left behind by the wind
for news of spring
chipmunk forays
out of hibernation
the braided tracks of coyotes
bright green
scraps of moss
dug up by a squirrel
from fact to faction
a gathering of teeth
the jaw with its standing stones
like a henge on hinges
offerings of food reduced
to a few hard words
for a songless tongue
is heavier than the devil
and unkissed lips miss
that lipstickiness
glossy as sunlit moss
scarlet as a cardinal flower
on the opposite bank of a creek
choked with rhododendron
and you lose shoes and socks
wade into the cold current
and later when you’re stumped
by a freshly cut ring of wood
where a hollow white oak
has gone missing
you recall all you’ve learned
in watercourses
step inside that chalk outline
and channel a storm
reblogged from Woodrat photohaiku
trail
turning dappled salamander
tail
curl
of an ache an oak
burl
one watery
eye between them
conjoined oaks
the shine of white-
haired youth
tussock moth
winding
up here
wild grapevine
ravished
by the wind
mother oak
prismatic glints from a spiderweb
catching the sun
as it moves through the forest
on slow stilts
ignoring the trail
an old colliers’ road
now a deep wrinkle
through the rocks
I rest against
an enormous hemlock
and study its dead companion
scarred by woodpeckers
like a mask with a few
too many eyeholes
I take off my shoes
press my bare feet to sand
from a 410 million-year-old shore
turned to stone
distant gunshots
punctuate the silence
there’s no view at the summit
of Greenlee Mountain in the summer
only the rock oaks’
interpretive dance
moving shadows
on a slab of quartzite
a hooded warbler teaching
its young how to sing
***
Rothrock State Forest
July 26, 2024
i open a book in the woods
and two ravens take flight
wind shuffles the sunset leaves
the ravens gurgle in the distance
another day breaks down
into its elements
i am trying not to rejoice
at the deaths of my enemies
the spongy moth caterpillars
decorating oaks with their corpses
they too are strangers
and sojourners in the earth
unable to limit their appetites
and stay where they land
the way an old mountain laurel
sheds its spent blossoms
and stands in a patch of what looks
from a distance like snow
in an oak forest whispery
with caterpillar droppings
an ovenbird steps out
on her pink feet
as i drink my pink tea
of sassafras and milk
the sun slides down
a silk thread
whose absent abseiler tracks
a shadow back to its tree
a caterpillar with whiskers
as bristly as a streetcleaner
entering a dark valley
in the bark of a chestnut oak
follows it up the trunk
propelled by its gut pulsing
in sync with the prolegs
from hump to hump
driven almost literally by hunger
a body within the body
that one day will crawl out
with wings and gonads
an overwhelming urge to mate
and no mouth
the female so full of eggs
she will not be able to fly
i finish my lunch
the male ovenbird is singing
a carpenter ant goes past
carrying a splinter
the song comes from a long way off
slow as an old man making water
like a sort of sky
with one persistent cloud
the song brings its own weather
to a climate of fear
filling every redbreast
with territorial ambitions
until a brown thrasher
gets a hold of it and shakes
upside upside down down
get rid of it get rid of it
as the trees launch their fleets
unfurl their sails
cells vibrate in concert
each at its own pitch
a music not meant for any ears
this side of eden
where pollen still turns
our jack boots green
