Because Every Jot of Earth Is a Grave
Some gnat. Some night-fluttered moth.
Some leaf from a dogwood or oak.
A newborn something. A palsied other.
Some thing died there.
Moldered away.
The tree growing from that spot
is both herself and the green
ghost of another.
She’s the numen who soughs and sighs,
breathing out the stories of those
her roots suck from the earth.
Paulann Petersen, Oregon Poet Laureate Emerita, has eight full-length books of poetry, most recently My Kindred from Salmon Poetry of Ireland. Read more.