I've written about men cutting down the trees on our property before. They are at it again.
It kills me.
Here is the little woods I love as it looked about four years ago. I haven't had the heart to photograph the way it looks now, with so many stumps of trees.
so, here's my poem for the day:
Lament for Doomed Ash Trees
The grounds crew plans to cut them down.
I am helpless to stop them.
My heart sinks with anger and dismay.
Here, restore actually means destroy.
So in my depression, I turn to my childhood:
Loving the merry go round
riding the merry go round on the last day of school
at the school picnic,
Sousa music smooth and cool as a current of water
on the evening breeze of mid June
coursing through the open pavilion.
Round and round,
seeking to walk on the still earth when landing.
Ring a round the rosy
the sky and the farmer in the dell
go in and out the window
all going in circles for balance
for the inner ear which listens to the ocean of blood
the reliable heart beat
The inner ear
which notices the sound of something small
dropping in a distant room
a distant ocean down by the bellowing of pipes of guts,
something clattering to the floor of my stomach,
breaking into small pieces.