The Watchful Trees (Ode to a Prairie Birch Wood)
Matthew Anderson Nov 2014
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I could lose myself here.
Paper-bark peeling
white bone from the green,
your quiet, revealing
what I might have to mean.
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Here the dead are not buried.
It’s all boom and bust.
A hardy, short-lived pioneer species
is what they call us.
Come to break the treaties.
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My leaving stopped the dying.
It stanched the blood-flow.
You were rooted, you had to stay,
I learned to fly; I had to go.
At least if they ask, that’s what I’ll say.
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I’ll tell them the story
of how hard you grew me up,
my birthright a knife,
instead of a cup.
Sharpened steel to hold close, in case of real life.
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I could lose myself here.
Your paper-bark peeling
back ghosts and regrets. Such blood in this place.
Your quiet, revealing,
what I still have to face.
(painting by Janice Donato)
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