Hope
1 min
It began with a quaking Aspen
Anita Skeen
or, wait, maybe before that
with Octopus Tree, our neighborhood
refuge, taken down by Mr. Daughtery
so he could put up a house none of us kids
wanted in the neighborhood, or even before that
when my daddy's big station wagon slid off
the ice-slick vertical driveway and took out
the pink dogwood at the bottom.
The trees have been coming down
for as long as I can remember and each one
gone was a singular loss, a singular grief
still mourned if only by me. Grief is
like that, a seed fallen on the heart, perhaps
left unattended for years, until you open
the door one day and there it is, blooming
and fragrant, and you say, Oh, yes....
Most recently it was the huge white pine
drilled through by beetles, and then the red maple,
home to chickadees and nuthatches, woodpeckers
and goldfinch, that the septic tank pumpers said
had to go because its roots covered the lid. Oh no...
I said, not that tree, it's not coming down. It didn't.
But I could not save the cedars from the chainsaws
of Consumers Power, men who left vodka bottles
in place of the limbs. The limbs of the apple tree
snap from too much weight, too much unpicked sweetness
this year. A hundred apples lay on the ground among
twigs and leaves. Two days later, the deer have eaten
them all. They have taken the pears from the lower
branches of that tree, leaving the earth scattered with
fruit missing one bite. Oh, and that quaking aspen: a start
from its roots keeps rising, leaves whispering yes, yes, yes.
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