Dear Beech Tree
I want to lie down beside you,
trunk to trunk, rest
my palm on knobby welts,
fissures and folds, press
my cheek to bark, listen
for squirrel scuttle, and
what I once thought
was ocean inside my ear.
Was it relentless rain
brought you down, or
did you yearn for shamble
and rot? I live in the north,
where pine tree roots
cross fields, upend cellars,
pull curses from farmers who
give up sometimes. I imagined
your roots would sweep,
brace, and hold like pine.
It’s all I know. I assumed
you’d fight. Maybe you did.
The circle of debris
your blunt roots robbed
has left a small ragged crater
where water collects,
brackish and brown, mottled
with froth from whatever
thrives in mud and stinks
like yeast. I kneel
to breathe you in.
Cynthia Snow is a Massachusetts-based writer whose work has appeared in the Massachusetts Review, Peace, Worcester Review, Crannóg, and elsewhere. Read more.