In Defiance of the Poets
by Marlene Brubacher
Something there is that does not love a tree,
And that’s myself, when bounding it with weedwhip.
Good trees lift sturdy arms to God, ’tis true;
They make good neighbours, make us maple syrup,
They hold the light, hold blossoms, and hold hope.
And yet when I am circumnavigating,
And dent my veil where late the sweet birds sang,
When I am scratching forearms on the needles,
And losing gas tank lids beneath the limbs,
I do not care for lolling, dreaming shepherds,
I do not care for yearly tricks of rings.
I think all airy aspens should be felled
Before the mist and yellow fruitfulness
Compel me, late and soon, to rake again.
My neighbour laughs, and plants another sapling.
She still insists that forests make good lawns.
Marlene gypsies about the great white north, where she rescues abandoned books and grows poems.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy