Wood Song, by Justin Quinn


Wood Song

I remember the world in spring—

those few weeks when the blooming trees

let go their pollen for the breeze

with unexpected force to swing

sky-high, multitudes milling round

at different speeds of draught and drift

so many metres from the ground—

a festival, a stunning airlift.

Maple, walnut, beech,

alder, plane and ash.


They say the world will end (again).

A few weeks till the dead of winter

when we’ll be iced or burned to cinder.

What do I know? Women and men

tell kids it’s certain that the trees

will change to green again in spring.

Outside the roots and branches freeze

while the burning logs whistle and sing—

maple, walnut, beech

and all the rest now ash.




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