by John Grey
Firs and hemlocks reclaim this land for forest.
An old rusted train track doesn’t deter them.
The last echo of a whistle died eighty years ago.
Same with the buzzing of the saws.
Logged out, replanted, throw in a few
alders, cedars, many years worth of rain,
and the woods rejuvenate in dampened splendor,
a trove of mushrooms, maidenhair, slugs, caterpillars,
a feast of insects for the passerines.
And, to think, nature did all this from memory,
deep and shared, or maybe it had access
to the picture-book laid on the floor before me,
a world before loggers, sweat and shouts,
thick and dark enough for fairy-stories.
This is an unlikely victory for the wild.
No less a triumph for my picture-book.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
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