TFR Home Page | Contents | Prev. Page | Next Page | Comments |
Postcards By Annette Basalyga 1. Visiting Pennsylvania puts trees in my head, hills turned in ash and maple, and along the road, sumac and shrubs I can’t identify. One vignette: a farmhouse, pond, and willow, that Oriental tree, its yielding nature etched adamant in watered silk. I’m that, or would be. 2. On Saturday, all afternoon a gardener kills by appointment a tree I’ve known since childhood. Its roots endanger water lines. The allegory’s there, but I’m more interested in how the work is done and if I’ll like the view. 3. Evenings there’s nothing much to do. My children coax a story. I think of how one lucky lady threw magic seed into the fallow ground. When I wake up tomorrow will I find the tree time grew? Already Easter angels climb by handholds and kneeholds to a place they guess. They promise no miracles but ascend bough after bough in the clear air. They nod to each other. They encourage each other. |
© Copyright 1997, 2024, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 04/02/2006