Here Where Once a Thick Patch of Woods
enchanted the corner at the end of our street
with the look of wild, with the feel of deep country,
with the sense of presence pressing down
on you paused at the stop sign, jolts of joy
whipping through open windows
on shade-cooled wisps of dampish air–
where once on a fair winter afternoon
returning after a long while away, I was
shaken by the shock of seeing the whole lot
ramshackle-shorn, trees torn from their
stunned stumps now numbed in silence
after the blitzkrieg of lumberjack chain
saws spitting their life-meal into the wind,
dropping the proud towers in a matter of hours,
dragging them to an ignominious end–
now stand on this bright summer day
waves of foxglove sentries, tall and straight,
brave companies of rebel stalagmites
blanketing the field, having fled in mass
the colorless caves of the bleak underworld,
called to rise by the cry of tree roots under siege,
responding the moment the call was received,
but arriving too late, after the massacre,
and now on mission to regather honor
by standing unmoved beneath beating sun-glare,
purple and white uniforms luminescent
in their unwavering vigil, filling the space
where once evergreen branches lifted
their up-raised palms in praise,
now in their stead and for their sake
the foxglove bells from every stem
ring silent tribute to the beauty that once
stood this ground, mingling with sky
until the last hero fell in defeat,
here where once a thick patch of woods
enchanted the corner at the end of our street.