Tuesday, March 12, 2019

limb from limb


morning light
gilding the treetops
as they fall
splinters lodge
in my paperbark heart

the sound
of limbs being broken
as if on a wheel—
bloodless the fallen hollies,
the heart of pine laid bare

the blunt thrust
of a bulldozer,
the shudder 
of tissues torn apart—
who cries for the earth me too

a box turtle
crushed by the skidder’s tread
at the edge
of the leftover woods
this barricade of spiders’ silk

plumes of smoke
rise from the clearcut
silvery as ghosts
the sound of wind chimes
before the hurricane

may the words
that tumble from my tongue
be turned to moss—
creep over the wounded land,
bury the cities of men

~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019






2 comments:

  1. Hi Jenny, this is Richard from Inkstone. Just wanted to say hi and that I love this piece that I read originally in Ribbons. Congratulations on it's publication. They've clear-cut a lot of forest around our cabin in Northern Wisconsin. A real tragedy IMO. Nice work.

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