
I awakened under clouds
feeling respite from fierce
heat in April that
forced maple, birch,
beech, and poplar
to bud and burst.
First we planted
Balsam seedlings;
He climbed birch
sawed off
dying trunks,
some broken
beyond recognition,
wreckage from
the ice storm –
a winter holocaust
that stole my peace,
my trust in white,
deep restful sleep.
My body keens
for the multitude –
Removing gray birch
dims the memory
of a forest
of downed trees
that lay across
my road –
Anguish
that buried me.

This is about me
and not the trees,
I think sadly, as
if I could separate
One from the Other…
Our lives are
inextricably entwined.
And so, as each one
comes down,
is sawed and piled up
for firewood, I
feel relief.
Young evergreens
emerge, having
been protected
by Gray Birch
for all these years…
I take a moment
to give thanks
for broken “mothers”
who nurture
New Life.
Gentle, generous
Living Beings – who
even in their dying
accept what is.
Most people do not appreciate trees enough.
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Most people don’t even see trees; they see dollar signs…
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