Poetry Prose and Other Wordsby Ken Inghamhome
- poems - essays
- autobio - retroblog |
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Dead
Wood . . . . . . and then, much later, after hundreds of layers of cambium had numbered her girth the spirit withdrew. Suddenly, with as little notice as when it had first arrived on earth, squeezing its huge mystery into that tiny acorn. Her breathing stopped. No buds or leaves appeared. What in winter had been just another naked figure in the crowd now stood out like David bones and muscles all exposed by lack of foliation. Dead, of course, but still erect and proud a monument to her own passing, tall above the remnants of her final and most fruitful fall. The canopy is broken now, Poison ivy shinnies up her trunk, hoisted by the very light that built the thing to which it clings. Ants and termites follow close behind, finally free to cross the line they hollow out the heart of her, the one whose shed branches had sustained them in abeyance. Instead of warblers and thrushes come flickers and woodpeckers daily paying their noisy respects peeling back the skin, partaking of her body by the insect full. Instead of raging katydids at night come softly spoken owls to assess the broken sockets of her moon-engaging hull. One by one her limbs succumb to weight of vine and snow. Winds blow hard, she cannot bend her roots let go, she tips, and then . . . her lumbering carcass comes to rest amongst the rocks and flowers in the understory of her youth. Prayerful chipmunks eulogize. Mulching worms and micro-organisms tenderize what's left of her. Old molecules and rare earth ions seek asylum in the rain, penetrate the hairy roots, and rise up through the xylem of her progeny.
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