Old friend now there is no one alive
who remembers when you were young
—W.S. Merwin
My daughter asked what kind
you were, and I am ashamed to say
I did not know, and had to consult the Web—
Last to shed those red-brown leaves, though
few fought through the shared driveways
of winter. Oh, how we counted them from
the shitty, screened-in porch! You sent us
Mama, mother of all squirrels, and all
her babies too, soon fed from our small hands.
Year after year, you held the corn we hung
in a cage from your branches, the birdhouse
painted by our neighbor, my dearest friend,
and the jays and the wrens, and the jays
and wrens that followed, and all of those
that sang before your dappled shade, before
your playground of ants and tinkling chimes,
before the men that cut you down were
birthed ungently from their mothers wombs.
—
Andrea England is a mother, partner, and poet living between Kalamazoo and Manistee, MI. She is the author of two chapbooks, and her poetry has appeared widely in journals. She earned her PhD in English and Creative Writing (poetry) from Western Michigan University. Growing up on a farm in the Midwest, and returning to the Midwest after 30 years has intensified her relationship and ideas about our current climate crises. When not teaching, she runs, hikes, and spends time with her family and dog, Una.
