31 August 2009


AN ELEGY FOR TREES

The Water Oaks that soared above our yard

And swayed at ease or shook in hurricanes

And shaded us below, seeming to guard

Our house, are faltering now from age’s strains.

As rain collects in crevices that rot

And heavy downpours load the weakened limbs,

They crack then crash, if luckily, on our lot,

If not, onto our roof, by Fortune’s whims.

Then, oak by oak, they’re plucked from all around,

Their broad arms chain-sawed into thudding logs,

Their branches chipped and mulched, their stout stumps ground,

Their mates displaced: the squirrels, birds and frogs.

How will it be when not one oak is left?

We too will need to leave—forlorn, bereft.

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