The birch trees back by the track
are lying along the ground
in white lines
In the fall they stood swaying
amid the pines and sweetgum
sentinels gracefully arching toward the field
toward the power lines
which is why they have been cut down
They violated the fifty foot rule
with their beautiful white branches
so I visited them every day
in the last fall before the felling
and I read Frost
and I thought about the
swingers of birches
and the man who planted them
so foolishly close
And when the birches have been cut
into logs and ritually burned
for their heat and light
with their ashes picked up by the wind
I will stand in witness
to this ordinary life
shaped by time and chance
as the flames dance and flicker
Splitting the logs
Releasing in a shower of sparks
all the messages hidden
in their delicate parchment bark
—
Pauline Thornton lives on the remaining thirty acres of an old farm between Kent and Ravenna, Ohio—a place that continues to inform her identity and work: indoor (cooking and poetry) and outdoor (gardening and property maintenance). She is a retired teacher of literature and creative writing.
