Snag
Oct 31 2009


The tall poplar
upwind of the house
is a ton of punky wood
waiting to drop.
Its high sparse crown
looked like fall, all summer —
bare branches, bad shade,
a memento mori, on sunlit days
looming above us.

Poplars grow fast, die young
in tall reedy bunches,
sprouting on runners underground.
So this stand is really one,
colonizing the upland field
the air above.

The chainsaw rattles, roars,
growls at rest, belches contentment.
Then smokes and revs,
impatiently panting
greasy teeth flashing
the cheap combustion smell.
It bites, binds, frees itself,
tearing through rotten wood
with ease.
As the great tree leans,
toppling backwards
away from the house,
gets snagged by its brothers
angling-up.

I leave it like that,
birds nesting
trails of ants,
the wood turning dark
and soft as cork.
Where it will eventually settle to earth,
return
to rich black soil.