The Trees Do Not Point
A news response poem
Autumn rain cuts in cold gray streaks, stripping amber leaves from maple branches, blowing pine needles to the wet ground. Just a moment ago, it was summer: lush colors and humidity exploding, fecund plants expanding, a hothouse of balmy animation. But I blinked once, twice, and the oak yellowed, dahlias wilted, corn stalks faded and dried into crisp parchment stalks, standing like soldiers in the fields, soon to be cut down into stubble. How fast the seasons shift, dancing day to day between life and death. Yesterday, warm sunshine beat down, shining on the tall prairie grass. Today the air is bleak, sharp, bone chilling. I drive slowly along a timber-lined gravel road, alert for running deer. A tender fawn bolts from the woods. She stops before me, terror in her soft eyes. She hesitates, as I do, confused, looking left, right, down, up, contemplating which way to turn. We are both begging for direction, as if the tree canopy will lead us from danger to a place of safety. But the trees do not point. They only whisper, leaves fluttering in the raw wind, saying brace for bitterness, face the winter head on, keep moving ahead in the chill of the rain. The fawn leaps across the road and glides gracefully into the dark woods, vanishing up a steep hill, braving the damp, dusty funeral march of fall.
News response note: How quickly things change. Last week, it was summer, this week autumn; last week peace, this week, war.
You must compile your work in a book for your fans.
The photos that accompany your work are images that evoke emotion. Where is that magnificent tree?!