Broken Mothers

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.