By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
morning light
gilding the treetops
as they fall
splinters lodge
in my paperbark heart
the sound
of limbs being broken
as if on a wheel—
bloodless the fallen hollies,
the heart of pine laid bare
the blunt thrust
of a bulldozer,
the shudder
of tissues torn apart—
who cries for the earth me too
a box turtle
crushed by the skidder’s tread
at the edge
of the leftover woods
this barricade of spiders’ silk
plumes of smoke
rise from the clearcut
silvery as ghosts
the sound of wind chimes
before the hurricane
may the words
that tumble from my tongue
be turned to moss—
creep over the wounded land,
bury the cities of men
~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019