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