Category: Trees

i am not ready for
a light-filled forest

still half aflame
i struggle to recognize it

with thinning hair
comes the chill of loss

i finger a nickel
that slaveowner’s face

riding in my pocket
like i’m lewis and clark

under red and scarlet oaks
the music of falling acorns

tick-tocking but only
at random moments

i clock in at several
caught breaths an hour

a forest can turn to coal
in the fullness of time

and those who believe in hell
can dig it up and burn it

with faith all things
acquire an airbrushed glow

but when mountains move
there’s a detachment fault

beneath which other rocks
go their own way

i sit watching
the treetops glow

in sun that they can
no longer taste

a woodpecker’s
speckled woods

weathering novemberly
down to embers

in the soothills
of the alleghenies

where victorians went
on elegant excursions

railroad logging a hundred
summers in a day

now free to go
fluttering

muttering off
earthward

warm
worm
words

day breaks
like a wishbone
how lucky

that the longer portion
remains with us
in darkness

under the interstate
in that dull
interminable thunder

a school of salmon-
colored leaves
stream down

from trees given
scraps of now-
worthless land

a cylindrical concrete pier
is tree enough
for virginia creeper

its forked tendrils
its scarlet molt
a bit of fox grape

and now for
a fish crow’s
falsetto caw

an idyll of falling
drifting unmoored

from growing inlets
of October sky

must include the un-
remastered original

bright blue lightly
frosted weather

and a village nestled
against a mountain

the newly resurfaced road
that dead-ends at a trailhead

so the dog-walkers
can drive to the woods

so a canine snout can track
each falling leaf

while its human puzzles
over arborglyphs on a snag

where larvae came of age
and left the tree as beetles

after completing
their masterpieces

yes of course the foliage
in every shade of flame

sic transit gloria mundi
on a Tuesday afternoon

where death is life
for the leaf duff

a universe with
its own laws

inhabited by iron worms
and crescent moon millipedes

woodland jumping mice
and the shy timber rattler

basking in the middle
of a multi-use trail

its dark velvet scales
its electric buzz

covering for
a quiet getaway

through dry leaves in which
the wind also rustles

as if it were already
gray November

and dogs had noses
only for frozen gut piles

but already the deer
are hounded by lust

scrape away fallen leaves
in an agony of longing

until even the soil
speaks their name

a lexicon of scents
to which the pines contribute

losing hands
of five needles

for even evergreens
yellow with age

and the wind has
such a discriminating touch

while the oaks of course
take their sweet time

drop acorns before turning
in a depth of sky

not seen since April flowers
began spewing pollen

but if nature’s last green
is also gold

hasn’t the whole summer
been a false flag operation

and how can true colors
not intoxicate

whether burgundy or rosé
pale ale or amber

let blue jays steal the cry
of a red-tailed hawk

who’s otherwise occupied
wallowing in black and white

feathers of
an answered prayer