Catherine Zickgraf
Woods

The
first
trucks are
here to shred
my woods—the green space
I thought was mine when we built our
house a decade ago at the joining of two streams.

It's
our
forest.
Our poplars,
red cedar, live oaks
have woven their souls together
to fortress us with
the blankets
of fall's
gold
sea.

At the edge of eternity, trucks plow the borders.
They're driving in on steel alarms,
snapping roots like twigs.
Years I've found
words in the leaf breeze.
Spirits in seed beds are breathing.
I'll seek them even if the earth turns into concrete.

On
our
back porch
I've gathered
laughter and solace,
exhaling peace pipes among us.
The forest inhales
as trees sway.
Darkness
breathes
sweet.

The ruffling leaves
will grow wings.
I let
them
fall.