from: Stares to Other Places


Breaking the Surface

Bouncing over blue-green water, roaring motor behind us,
we laugh and talk through the wind and spray,
out to look for whales,

Black and white orcas over thirty miles away,
a long distance to go by boat. We hope to see them
break the surface to breathe.

My children lean into the wind, three in front of me,
one by my side...sturdy adults, always my children.
How do they move so fast?

Each was born over thirty years ago,
a long distance to here. My hopes for them
break the surface to breathe.

Three children in front of me, one by my side,
drenched, red coveralls, orange boat, looking for orcas.
Nothing is black and white. All is color.

Weighting

I stare at a puckered line
starting at my navel and going south.
My body parts seem to be working.
Restrictions lifted, I muck stalls, ride horses,
hoist grandchildren in the air.
But every three months
I face another blood test.

The sides of our driveway are now bare,
old brown trees removed, turned into mulch.
New ones with strong roots,
green leaves will take their places.
In the field, a yearling jumps, kicks, spins
goes back to grazing.

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from: Roots and Paths


Roots and Paths


Jonquils bloom in my manicured,
mulched yard. Nearby, the woods
still exhale winter,
bare and brown in the morning sun,
nothing green but moss,
leftover sprigs of grass,
the living and the dead
still one.

Leafless vines
surround us. Some hold
half-fallen trees in a tangled
aerial embrace,
others wait like snares
overhead.

Everywhere,
  scattered,
    splattered,
      peeled,
        broken
trees cause us to veer
from the familiar track.
An upturned trunk’s
vestigial roots spread
like a large pelvic bone.
Another’s are hind feet
ready to spring toward us.
A chain-sawed
hollow log is a cannon’s
bore aimed our way.

When I look down the hill, I see
the path where I will be,
heading in the opposite
direction,
on a different plane.
I look up,
see a hint of where I have been.
Both are familiar and foreign.

A fallen tree, caught
in the fork of another,
becomes my rudder.

 

from: Taking Stock

 

Death of the Maple

Kevin put one hand on bare wood,

the other on discolored bark.

It’s dying a slow death.

Nothing is moving up or down:

food,

water,

nothing.

Like terminal arterial sclerosis.

He pointed at a big girdling root

that has driven itself

through the tree’s heart,

sealing its fate.

We looked up at leaves

thinning like a chemo patient’s hair.

Kevin tore off a big piece

of red-and-yellow-striped plastic ribbon,

tied it around the trunkˇX

a notice of extinction,

euthanasia.

A small branch fell by his feet.

Today, two men with ropes and chainsaws

dismember the tree from its crown to the ground.

Their chipper’s diesel whine

drowns out any final moans

as it grinds everything

from twigs to huge hunks,

spews a stream of shredded bones.

The men rake, sweep, leave only

wet sawdust, skeletal roots,

a ringed vestige of the stump

as flat grave marker,

morning sun where there used to be shade,

a small scrap of striped ribbon.

     

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