Poplar (from “Alphabet in the Trees”)
March in October: winds rippling the poplar
At the top of the road, its pillar of green-gold leaves
Swirling in place as if flocking,
As if burning off the oxygen they give the air.
There’s poplar in the cordwood stacked behind
The house, in the raked piles of leaves,
Poplar in the kindling I set a match to, mornings,
Latticed in the heart of the stove.
A withered poplar puts forth flowers, says the book
Of hexagrams I’m paging through again,
A dry poplar sprouts at the root.
In March the air here will be scented by resinous buds.
The snow of petals will cover the road,
Ash from the stove feed the garden.
ROBERT GIBB is the author of Sightlines (Poetry Press, 2021), his thirteenth full-length poetry collection, winner of the 2019 Prize Americana for Poetry. Read more.