#76: Tree Fell

Poem that came in with the polar winds

Tree Fell

Hits the earth - a memory 
of nut cracking, of emergence 
back down the tap root 
when young, soft, and green, 

when THE SUN sent signals 
crystalline and commanding 
to reach, reach, reach for the sky 
you would never nor care to understand.  

What can be salvaged, reclaimed 
on a moonless night when 
you're the one who outshines the stars, 
a ragged scrimshaw on bone, 

your lowest fruit, cold 
stones in the powder, 
suspension of rot in earthen 
refrigeration - no ice box. 

You won't be cleared away 
until the spring, fed to a heap 
as mulch or cut apart for fires 
before the next burn ban 

A dead hand, shaking the ice-welded 
ground your feet are still planted in; 
knocking on the door of decay, 
you're left outside a reception 

with a toast of cider that mulled 
in spices from the other end 
of the post road, where ships once 
docked from the other end of 

the world, producing an ANCIENT 
that approaches you tomorrow 
and plops like an orangutan 
on your limb that still has some flex. 

You bend but do not yield, 
knowing his rest is temporary, 
his flesh is also withering, 
and his rings, like yours, will be counted. 




Copyright 2025 by Gary Dale Burns