Fallen Poplar
May 19 2013


The poplar had always been there.
Soaring, straight, sheer,
clear of branches
all the up
to its dandelion tuft
of soft green leaves.

If it weren't for the beautiful trees,
both freshly planted

and mature and grand
like that signal poplar, 
I would never have bought the place.

But now, its crown thinner, turning brown
the rot had been obvious for years.
So when it snapped in two
halfway-up that long tapering trunk
I was not surprised,
only gratified
it had missed the house.
In a fierce north wind
that free-wheeled through, one night,
like a runaway train
scouring out the deadwood.

Its broken stub will remain,
a monument
in scarred and mossy bark.
From softening wood
for woodpeckers with jack-hammer heads,
to shattered tip
where eagles may nest.
Because the place belongs to nature
I will leave it as is.

I am merely its steward, for a few short years,
after which
I, too, will return to the earth,
mature, but weary
a little thinner on top,

stricken by who knows what.
Like that fallen poplar

on some blustery night,
toppling

in our own good time.