Elegy in Western Washington
Ticking has begun in high branches.
You think it’s rain starting in,
but its sound is dry, and rust’s the new
evergreen, rust and ash gray.
Some early mornings when it stops, I’m up
to see how Rudy’s spruce puts on
its moon topper and, like a lighted Christmas
tree, hides its age, its dead center.
When a cloud passes over, I’m hopeful.
Chickadees wake as usual, and maybe
our firs, hemlocks, pines, and cedars won’t die.
Not yet. There’s that ticking. If you can name
the trees, someone said, you know you’re home.
The conifers of my home point
to sky with all its wind and winter cold.
They’re tough. They’re sharp. Their sky’s the shiny blade
of that two-man crosscut ‘misery whip’ that did
so many in, both men and trees.
Their ground’s a soft and aromatic resting
place. Their gift this year is abundant cones —
a sign. This sky’s not theirs. It’s full of hot air.
No rest for insect warriors. No dormancy.
Just warm rainfall and falling needles —
in Spruce Park, Fircrest, Hemlock, Pine City, and Cedar Falls.
Muriel Nelson’s publications include Part Song (Bear Star Press, Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Prize), Most Wanted (ByLine Press, ByLine Chapbook Award), and Please Hold (Encircle Publications, Poetry Chapbook Award). Read more.
“Elegy in Western Washington” was previously published in Sonora Review.