When congress slipped
a note to sell off federal
lands—to deforest,
to develop, and to cut
enlightenment
from the American landscape,
I began to memorize
definitions for the words:
copse, gully, rill, rivulet, orchard.
Maple. Oak. Linden. A place
in Antarctica hoards every seed
on this planet, underground,
for the apocalypse.
Last night, a tree fell in the windstorm
the crack sounded like a split
in the universe. It fell in the road
and blocked traffic like a protest.
This morning the town came
and ground it down to stump.
It’s still windy. The trees sway
outside my windows
rendering their own march. Waving.
Waving we are here—
we are over here.
This poem first appeared in Juked.
—
Suzanne Frischkorn is a Cuban American poet and essayist. She is the author of four books, most recently Whipsaw (Anhinga Press), and Fixed Star (JackLeg Press), as well as five chapbooks. She is the recipient of The Writer’s Center Emerging Writers Fellowship for her book Lit Windowpane, the Aldrich Poetry Award for her chapbook Spring Tide, selected by Mary Oliver, a Connecticut Individual Artist Fellowship, and a 2023 SWWIM Residency Award at The Betsy.
