Everywhere I go these days, the trees are never far from my heart. This is a poem I wrote last night after seeing two painted owls up on the walls as we were eating lunch in town at a restaurant. I know I won't see the owls again, here in the woods where we have all nested.
Lost
Two painted white owls spread snowy wings
in the center of black plates hanging at the restaurant –
and I remember the great brown soul
who sat, still, high up in the branches
and watched me pass, staying as I stopped
to see him fully, fully seen. They will come
no more, for there are no trees, all of us
blinded in the broad bright expanse
where earthen pilgrims stood, silent-winged.
Thanks, Nan,
ReplyDeleteI'm deeply saddened and with you in the pain. Your witnessing on behalf of the trees, being truly with them at their brutal end, is something I will always remember.