by Elsa Johnson
Walking todaybrought no solace
One of the ancient mighty ones
came down — a huge oak three hundred years
old sundered overnight Fierce winds ripped him
bare rooted out of the over-saturated soil
He lies now broken
hollow
It has been a long cold spring troublingly
abnormal Even in the fairest times I walk these woods trying
not to see distressing things like these ruined young
sugar maples the squirrels have stripped of bark thereby
killing them It seems a whole generation
will be lost ( but when does the world not
live in existential threat? ) It is not
possible for me to not
notice not feel some
measured
grief
My love who often walks beside me walks
with purpose — he looks ahead and does not see
such things unless I show him how deep in the woods last fall’s pale
gold leaves like small hands cupped ( like prayers ) still cling
hang down and grace slim branches Young beech
trees delicate silvery somehow hopeful
My friend the naturalist says
Perhaps they are trying to become
evergreen I think I understand
what he means — old beech trees
do not do this
Our eyes notice must focus on change
and error beauty and wreck as with these exponential
invasive tangles rose barberry briar — thorny plants that do not
belong in these woods and there is no longer enough
of me left to rip them out the way
I used to although I try and
still wage war for sake of the old natural order —
cut-leaf toothwort blooming : the ephemeral
white butterflies it hosts : first blooms of cherry by the lake
white washed across a grey fused sky You know —
or should — nature on her own is never scanting
Gaps will be filled just not always
with what you wish
There are thorns embedded in my flesh knobbing my fingers
They are part of me You must take me as I am today open and
touched by these young buds of shadblow serviceberry
mother — each small bud cloaked
in softest grey silk fur
that aches for
stroke
