Look, Here’s a Trail into a Grove
of redbud tress that spring up
like wild onions and tout their lives
as the good luck of the natural
extravagance of a common breed
Oh, down this path of rugged resort
sugar maples, untapped by need,
shade the tight valley from august heat
and wait to show-off their flare
in autumns’ intro to death
Along the inner fence a border oak
we call Old Red is cleared of brush and vine
for the occasional blanket and basket,
a wine bottle overwintered here
with a note inside: this, a burial place
And yes, in a tangle of vine and creeper
and thorny rose and invasive honey suckle
a solid acre of dead ash lost to an army
of emerald borers whose appetite
seems innocent enough to themselves
Come see the stand of eastern cedar
where moss and fern carpet the ground
and small birds flit safely in dense needle
hidden from the posture of cow pasture
