November
Near on November, the old trees’ hands
shake in the breeze’s slow build to winter.
Water has sunk through spread arms and rotted
chests that should be stalwarts of strength from legs
buried deep below. But others have fallen
and we have seen the catacombic rot
under thin white webs of mycelium.
We know their rings are broken, so
winter will be what winter will be.
Nothing done now will save these trees.
The firmament is glazed but below
the arbor skyline turns to red and gold.
Earth continues in patience birthing
seasons she has always born. And will bear.
This morning we opened her womb under
the dying. Though their green is farce
yet a little longer they will shade us.
May God bless them while he may.
But we will look to gospel ground —
fertile, aching, yearning through drought for rain.
For while gray bark splinters to show again
yellow death staunchly hidden, we have planted
tender life and staked it to grow straight, to be tall
when at last the old ones shiver and fall.
