On the Path Susan M. Allen Soon the men with electric saws will come To grind this fallen tree into mulch, firewood to stack, burn But don’t tell me this is just dead wood, its branches segmented, on the earth Now, like an insect crawling to water blue as the sky On the other side. I get off my bike, listening. A time like this Deserves more than a sigh, a pass under and through. I know what others say, those arguments I’ve left Behind, and pick back up everyday, like all the strangers I know But there are wood-elves here in this passage And we are blessed. I hear the sound of the tree As it waits before me, as it fell the night before Beneath a cold moon, in darkness, privately as a girl Undressing. The tree moves towards a stillness I won’t disturb As I move under and through with my bike, my happiness Like one hand clapping, like the long path ahead. I look behind only once, as you might wave goodbye a friend, Your mother, so there is no goodbye, and you remember the color, The music of everything you have ever known And leave the tree leaning across the dirt path, its roots Breathing air for the first time in a thousand years. I shudder As a great blue heron explodes behind me, from the bank, Bursting away, over the water, on heavy wings. Continue reading