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.
– JUSTIN QUINN