New England Forests are Sick, New York Times October 7, 2020
You communicate through your roots. Feed your brethren,
caution for pests. I believe you speak to me too––
you beckon with breezes, autumn hues, entertain
with shadows and shapes on wretched winter days, fill the sky
with vernal bouquets–– shade for my sweltering summer walks.
Two springs ago a dogwood dropped
a branch on my car—just scratches. Last fall an oak
let go its bough on my husband’s car—twisted metal,
broken glass. On a windy, warm October day
I hear a loud crackle before you plummet.
Grey limbs and trunk strewn across my pebbled path,
dead leaves blown to the road’s edge.
If I had not paused by Julie’s Barn to marvel
at your kin—maple, beech and birch—
you might have brought me to the ground with you.
Now I walk with trepidation, every rustle and creak arouses
like whispered warnings. I’m terrified you reached
your breaking point. Next time I won’t walk away unscathed.
This poem first appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review (2021).
—
Laurie Rosen is a lifelong New Englander. Her poetry has appeared in Gyroscope Review, Zig Zag Lit Mag, Oddball Magazine, The Inquisitive Eater: New School Food, One Art, Please See Me and elsewhere. Laurie won first place in poetry at the 2023 Marblehead, MA Festival of the Arts.
