Poem 3: The Way Light Moves
I often walk to the forest near my house so I can’t
see the rooms of my house that confine me.
I’m not smart enough to speak Tree, but I want to learn
how the distance is never as great as we think
between where we are and where we want to be.
It’s difficult to listen to the clap of crows winging
away from here, but I want to learn how to do it.
Chain link fencing surrounds the new pit
earth movers made of this corner where a 100-foot
water tower will be raised. But they razed
100-year-old trees to make room. The pit
is walled in on all sides by the rocks and dirt
that once filled this space. The berms circle 15 feet high
on all sides. I want to trample to the top of the berms,
feel the dirt give way under my feet. None of this business
is neat. It’s as messy as the art room
of the elementary school a short walk from this pit.
The light is used to watching the children play in the yard.
The light climbs the trees all day, low to high to low again,
but how can it climb when the trees are now gone?
We keep our sorrows to ourselves, just like
the balsamroot and service berries keep
secrets they won’t speak. I wish I could speak to them all,
tell them I’m sorry for this pit that wrecked their home.