Clear Cutting

A forest walk—we find

a stride, smell last winter

on dead leaves.  Trees

block some sky but the sun,

on gold stilts, walks

in clearings.  Driving home

we pass stumps,

busted branches.  A forest

gutted.  Ghosts of pines

and birches search for where

they left their roots.  

                                    "sweet, especial rural scene"

                                                                        Gerard Manley Hopkins

                                                Hopkins walks to meet

                                                trees.  God,

                                                his comfort and agony,

                                                but trees have bark,

                                                a more tangible

                                                mercy.

                                                Away from the city,

                                                his poplars grow

                                                across centuries,

                                                contralto leaves singing

                                                with an alto wind. 

                                                When he arrives,

                                                he finds stumps,

                                                a space

                                                for buildings to fill, 

                                                poplars

                                                dead of cash.  He

                                                returns to a ragged

                                                solitude remembering

                                                rest they gave,

                                                writes a poem for

                                                each lost leaf,

                                                his drawer

                                                stuffed

                                                with poetry, with grief.

                                           A Tree Calls You

                                      but you're unlisted.  Your life's
                                               misfiled, mislaid, mis-
                                               taken.   Tonight a tree calls

                                               you, not long distance—just
                                               open your window.  Fireflies
                                               doze in a leaf
                                               hammock before lighting
                                               a field,
                                               the electric company
                                               in mid-air.  A tree calls

                                               you names birds call you in
                                               secret.   You don't answer.  Careful,
                                               would you want a tree to think
                                               you rude?  Don't worry.
                                               Trees don't snub.  They shade.
                                               Listen,

                                               her still voice again--the tree,
                                               her taproot belly laugh.
                                               Branches offer you a hand.

Ken Pobo is a regular contributor to ForPoetry.com.  Click here to read about Ken Pobo's books and publications.  "Clear-Cutting" first appeared in Mid-American Review, "sweet, especial rural scene" first appeared in Atlanta Review and "A Tree Calls You first appeared in Illuminations and was republished in his book, Ordering: A Season in my Garden.

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