Ninety percent sky over rolling hills
dotted with squat growth
dark green, charred black,
blue of mountain, maybe sea.
Three parallel spindly trees
bare except for tufts of apex foliage,
each trunk shorter by half, thinner
than the one to its left,
the tallest near the scene’s ceiling.
Rejected by loggers. Diseased?
No room on the truckbed? Markers—
where workers left off, of the hacked
splendor, the heft of their theft.
Behind the beloved trio, arced discs
vibrate outward in waves—
the trees’ radiance, or clouds, or smoke?
The rings closest to earth rise
dark as dregs of ruin.
One wonders how long these three, so exposed,
will stand, and if the greed of roots
can hold all that height.
is the author of five chapbooks, and two collections from Dos Madres Press:
Swim Your Way Back (2014) and A Map and One Year (2018). Her work
appears in The Ekphrastic Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Adirondack Review,
Salamander, and Naugatuck River Review. She reviews poetry at
Author’s website: https://karenlgeorge.blogspot.com/