Words won’t save us.
All the Holy Lands are up in flame.
Yesterday, a dozen trees came down
around my house, the bones
of their bodies – cherry and black birch,
white pine, white birch – lie
on the cold earth, twisted and silent.
All the birds are flung from their nests.
I paid the man with the chain-saw
but it’s my job to clean up the mess.
Over several seasons I’ll section down
the trees, rive the limbs to kindling,
chop and split the trunks to pieces fit
to feed my stove, to keep the family
warm across the coming winters.
In the wreckage a tufted titmouse
hops from branch to branch. Somewhere
in the frozen swamp a Carolina Wren
calls to his mate. Here in my house
the children are asleep. Words won’t save us.
All the Holy Lands are up in flame.
The Watering Hole :: Jeff Conant 